The Rape Machine
by Ann Taylor


PROLOGUE 

Rodney Park was a single block of greenery in the heart of the city, 
bordered by the North American Building, the Du Pont Building, the post 
office and the library. Narrow ribbons of grass were hemmed by rows of 
neatly trimmed hedge and rows of small evenly spaced trees. Paths of 
concrete crisscrossed the park and there were two rows of benches - a row 
that faced the center of the park, and a row that faced the outer edges of 
the rectangular park and the buildings beyond. The benches had always been a 
temporary haven for drifters in the city, the derelicts, alcoholics, 
homeless, jobless, pensioners, or old men with no destination. Occasionally 
the benches were a resting place for a secretary awaiting her bus, an 
elderly woman weary from a day's shopping, a young student with his 
textbooks, or a job-seeker pausing to rest between prospective employees. 

Carl Pawelski sat on the bench at the northeast corner of the park, the 
bench that faced the corner bus stop with its stretch of yellow curb and 
thin metal sign. He was a short and plump man with slick black hair receding 
slightly, thick mats of hair along the backs of his hands and the tops of 
his fingers. His face was almost absolutely round with a bulbous nose and a 
wide mouth turned down at the corners. A clown's face. A sad clown's face. 
His arms were too long and his shoulders were too narrow. When he walked he 
resembled an ape but it had been a long time since anyone had laughed at 
Carl Pawelski. Most men were quick to notice the thickness of his arms and 
thickness of his wrists. His hands clutched together in fists, became solid 
masses of hard flesh and bone that could crack a man's jaw as easily as most 
men swatted a fly and, although he resembled an ape when he walked, he moved 
briskly, lightly on his feet as if he could spring in any direction 
instantly with the deadline's of a fighter in a ring. 

The world had become a ring for Carl Pawelski - an arena with himself 
against the world. Life had severed him from the mainstream where men and 
women laughed and loved. He was on a cold island that followed him wherever 
he went and he had killed and raped and stolen and battered his hard fists 
against the mainstream. 

It had been a long time since women had laughed at the sad clown face. 
Invariably, when women saw the cold black eyes, they knew this was not a man 
to be laughed at. Women could instinctively sense the element in the cold 
black eyes although it was an element they would rarely speak of and rarely 
sense fully - their senses ordinarily registered only a glimmer of warning, 
like a red light flashing briefly deep inside them. 

The cold black eyes were those of a rapist - an animal, devoid of pity and 
any emotion except hate and reflexive fear. As he rested on the bench at the 
northeast corner of the park, his black eyes were alive - their gaze 
devouring the group of secretaries and typists who waited at the corner for 
the bus - tracing every nyloned curve of calf, every curve of buttock and 
richness of breast. The variety of colors of skirts and blouses, the variety 
of hair styles or the purses they carried were invisible to his mind, unseen 
- eyes and mind seeing only their soft bodies, imagination crystallizing 
only a tearing-thrusting through soft flesh, violent explosions. 

Carl watched as the bus arrived and the women boarded one by one. There was 
one woman superior to the others - a haughty poise, an expensive dress, a 
sparkle of diamonds on her bracelet - a tall dark-haired woman with gray 
eyes and a sensual red mouth. 

He watched as she stepped up into the bus - skirt sliding to expose areas of 
smooth thighs. His lips curled toward a smile of satisfaction. He knew he 
had the power to fuck that woman - or any woman in the city. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

She dressed in her Bermuda shorts, her green sleeveless blouse and thong 
sandals. She put on lipstick and combed her hair then stood before the 
mirror to survey herself. The blouse was too thin. It showed the slight 
darkness of her nipples through the fabric and, reluctantly, she took off 
the blouse, opened the bureau drawer to get one of her bras ... 

The doorbell rang. For a moment she straightened and stared at her 
reflection in the mirror - stared at her round naked breasts and then stared 
at her face. She counted the rings. The mailman only tapped the bell once, 
the newsboy had an erratic pattern, and Rosina always rang three times. It 
was none of those and she guessed it was a salesman. Let him wait. She 
wiggled into the bra, slipped into the blouse again, and buttoned it as she 
went down the stairs. In the living room, she made sure her blouse was 
tucked in securely with no wrinkles anywhere, passed a hand over her hair, 
and glanced through the rectangular panes. It was a salesman. Clearly a 
salesman. She opened the door. 

He held a portable television in one hand. She listened to him awhile and 
said, "I'm sorry, we have a TV." 

"Do you have a portable TV?" 

He was short and fat and balding. He was ugly too, she decided. "No, and, 
really, we have no need for one." 

"Do you go to the beach? If you go to the beach ... you'll be interested in 
this set. It's ideal to take to the beach." 

"When we go to the beach, we go there to go in the water." His insistence 
was annoying. He was disgustingly fat and there were droplets of sweat on 
his face. He wiped at the droplets on his cheeks with a soiled handkerchief. 
Some droplets of sweat trickled down his upper lip to the edge of his mouth 
and he caught them with the tip of his tongue in a disgusting manner she had 
never seen before. He was suddenly looking at her body and studying her hips 
and legs. His eyes focused on the area of her loins and, although she knew 
he couldn't see anything through the Bermuda shorts, she felt a sudden chill 
at the way he so frankly studied the area ... 

She began to close the door. He raised the portable TV and, oddly, he turned 
it on as if to show her how it worked. She watched the flickering screen, 
still closing the door against him. With some salesmen, you had to be ... 

* * * 

The bedroom curtains fluttered in the faint breeze. She watched them awhile 
and thought she'd taken a nap ... The fat salesman was in the bedroom with 
her and she first saw his reflection in the mirror, then saw him from the 
corner of an eye as he moved toward the bed. She was on the bed, she 
realized dully, and she tried to scream. 

He moved still closer to the bed and she saw he'd removed his pants and 
shorts. She stared at his cock, turned her head away, and again tried to 
scream. There was no sound, as if he had somehow paralyzed the muscles in 
her throat, and she realized at the same moment that he must have somehow 
knocked her unconscious and carried her up here to the bedroom ... She tried 
to move her arms. They were powerless. 

"Afraid to look at my cock?" he whispered. "Ah, honey, come on, look at my 
cock." She felt the bed sag beneath his weight and his hands gripped her 
head, turning it. His cock was only inches from her face; she watched the 
hardening of flesh, the thickening of veins, the drops of oily liquid that 
squeezed through the slit in the purplish knob, and then closed her eyes. 
His fingers were painfully tight as they held her head. 

Clark! Save me! 

His fingers moved to her breasts ... 

Clark, come home! 

He squeezed her breasts and fondled them. Her mind raced to the questions: 
What happened to my blouse? What happened to my bra? And, immediately, the 
answer: He removed them. 

His fingers were more and more painful. He squeezed her nipples for a while 
and cupped her breasts with his hands again, squeezing still more painfully. 
His fingernails bit into the softness of her breasts. 

Clark! 

She drifted away from the bed and it seemed she was somewhere else where she 
could think slowly and carefully. What time was it? Sometime after noon, so 
there was no hope at all of him coming home to save her. He did come home 
for lunch now and then but today it was too late for that. 

The man's fingers left her breasts and slid down the length of her body. 
Both his hands were on her thighs but now he seemed more gentle. "Open your 
eyes," the man ordered. 

She opened her eyes as if it were a command she could not disobey. The bed 
seemed to be at an odd angle and slowly she realized he had propped pillows 
beneath her shoulders. He had removed her Bermuda shorts and her panties. 
She felt his fingers as they caressed her ... one of the fingers pressing 
between the lips of her cunt and against her clitoris. She had opened her 
eyes but was not looking at him or what he was doing. 

"Watch this," the man ordered. 

Again she obeyed as if it were a command she could not disobey. As she 
watched, he spread her legs, crouched between them, and slowly lowered 
himself. She stared at his cock as it lowered closer and closer. She began 
to tremble. The man alternated between watching the expression on her face 
and looking at her cunt, but he was smiling, always smiling, thick lips 
peeled across yellowed teeth. 

"Here we go," the man hissed softly. 

She felt the first contact of his prick and she shuddered. He pressed the 
knob between her love-lips and then she felt him sliding the hard length of 
his prick into her cunt, slowly, inch by inch. 

"Ahhhh!" The fat man sighed with satisfaction as she felt the roundness of 
his stomach against the trim flatness of her own. With a clarity of 
sensation she had never experienced so completely with her husband, she 
could feel every inch of the man's cock within her cunt, every pulsating 
inch of hard flesh, could feel its warmth and heavy-throbbing. She continued 
to obey his command to watch and observe as his penis withdrew until only 
the knob remained lodged between her vagina lips, partially hidden from view 
by the fluff of her dark pubic hair. The man remained for long moments 
poised above her with the knob pulsating heavily against her vagina lips as 
if he wished to tease himself. She felt her moist lips trembling against the 
hard head of his cock as if trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. 
The man laughed and looked into her eyes. 

"You got a good, tight little cunt," he said. "And now you're gonna be 
fucked harder than you ever been fucked before!" 

She saw the thick cock lunge viciously down into her cunt, a crushing, 
tearing pressure. He groaned with pleasure as he fucked her with long 
powerful thrusts and she began to feel as if he would split her apart. 
Despite the aching pain and the fear and the horror, she felt her insides 
grow tingling warm and felt herself oozing come against the length of the 
thrusting cock moments before she felt the wet gush of his come. 

He pulled away from her and sat on the side of the bed while he lit a cigar. 
She watched unbelievingly as he puffed on the cigar a few moments and then 
climbed above her, squatting with his limp cock between her breasts. 

"Rub my cock against your tits," he ordered. 

She saw her hand move to his soft cock, take it and rub it against her 
breast. Slowly - as she worked and wondered why she could not disobey - she 
felt, his cock hardening. 

He moved until his cock pressed against her lips. "Suck it," he ordered. 
"Suck it real good." 

She drew the knob into her mouth and began to suck, tasting the mixture of 
their come. 

"Lick it while you've got it in your mouth." 

She obeyed, flicking her tongue at the mass of hard flesh within her mouth 
and feeling it grow larger and harder by the moment. She felt the hard 
length begin to throb as the taut flesh grew warmer. 

"Suck it harder! Suck it harder!" Obediently she began to suck harder and 
heard the faint slurping sound she was making as she worked. He jabbed a 
finger into her cunt and fondled her clit while she sucked and, suddenly, he 
shoved his cock into her mouth as far as he could, her mouth filling with 
the warm liquid of his come. "Swallow it!" the man hissed, jerking his hard 
prick back and forth between her lips as it continued to pour. "Gulp it 
down!" 

The bedroom curtains drifted lazily in the slight breeze. She watched them 
for a while through half-closed eyes and realized she'd taken a nap. She 
tried to fall asleep again and heard the children playing in the yards 
nearby. She wished they'd be quiet so she could fall asleep again. 

Then, slowly, in a trickle of horror, she became aware of the various 
sensations throughout her body. Her lips were aching as if someone had 
kissed her too roughly. Her breasts and nipples were tingling as if someone 
had squeezed them, tingling as they did sometimes after Clark was too rough. 
Her cunt was throbbing painfully ... She sat up in bed and stared at her 
naked body. There were traces of drying semen on her thighs, droplets caught 
in the maze of her pubic hair ... the room was filled with odor of semen. 

She looked at her wrist watch. Two o'clock. She pressed a fingertip against 
her aching cunt. Someone had made love to her only a short time before. And 
yet ... it couldn't have been Clark. Clark would be at the office ... 
Someone had raped her! She slid from the bed, pressed both hands against her 
loins, and began to scream. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

In the corner of The Hub, Clark Vaughn watched as the couple across the 
aisle left their booth. Now he was essentially alone with Elaine. There were 
still about a dozen other people in the place - a quick glance over his 
shoulder told him - but that dozen could see only Elaine and himself from 
the shoulders up. The couple across the aisle could have seen everything but 
they were gone and chances were there wouldn't be anyone else in that booth 
until much later. 

He sipped his tea and continued their discussion. "Tobin will never go any 
further with the company. He's lucky he's gotten as far as he has. I worked 
with him for a while in the Richmond plant and I guess I know him better 
than anyone else here in the main office. He started with the company, 
working with tools." 

"Working with tools?" Elaine asked. Her soft red lips curved in a teasing 
half-smile as she asked the question. He hesitated, studying her mouth. She 
had a way of asking a question that was all her own. She smiled when she 
asked a question - smiled in a way with those soft red lips that made you 
want to explain fully anything in the world. 

"'Working with tools' is an expression I picked up in the plant. It means a 
man starting out as a mechanic, you know, working with his hands and tools." 

"Oh." 

"So he's never had a college education. I know he's a damned good mechanic, 
but he doesn't have any concept of paper work. He can't comprehend 
paperwork. He doesn't understand how to simplify paperwork." 

"I'm in favor of anyone who simplifies work." She unsnapped her purse and he 
watched her slender red-tipped fingers as she searched for her cigarettes. 
He lit the cigarette for her and continued to watch her hands. They were the 
softest woman's hands he'd ever seen, much softer than Alma's ... much 
longer and softer ... He lit a cigarette for himself and pressed his knee 
against her knee. Kneesies, he thought. A harmless game of kneesies. 

* * * 

It began a few weeks after they transferred him from the plant to the main 
office. When he first moved into his office, he was dismayed to find his 
secretary was a thin, gray-haired woman who pecked at the typewriter as if 
she hated it, and spoke to him and all men as if she hated men more than the 
typewriter. 

Clark saw Elaine before she became his secretary. She was the kind of woman 
you couldn't help noticing. Tall, slender, long lovely legs. A beautiful 
face and bright dark eyes that flashed sometimes as if with an inner heat. 
And a set of rings on her left hand that sparkled whenever the sunlight 
touched them. At the company's annual office party, with a few martinis 
beneath his belt, he had made careful advances. And was not only rewarded by 
Elaine's hasty retreat, but also lectured by Buddy Allen. "Stay away from 
her, Clark. Looks good, is good, I guess, but God knows, nobody in this 
whole company's ever got in her pants and every man under sixty has tried." 

That was the end of it for a while. She was Bill Medkeff's secretary and had 
been Bill's secretary ever since she went to work for the company. 
Apparently Bill had never gotten anywhere with her because once, in Bill's 
office, both of them bent over a blueprint Bill had spread across his desk, 
they had watched Elaine come into the office to give Bill a telegram and 
they had watched the sensual flash of her nyloned legs as she left the 
office and closed the door behind her. He'd asked Bill, half-jokingly, 
half-seriously: "Ever get any of that?" 

"Nope. And nobody else will either, pal. Nobody but her husband. She likes 
to tease and play but she'll never let anybody fuck her." 

The "teasing" part had been easy to understand but the "play" part eluded 
him. He asked, "What kind of play are you talking about?" But Bill had 
completely ignored the question and began talking about the blueprints 
before them. 

Months later, when Bill Medkeff found a better job with Westinghouse and had 
removed everything from his desk, Bill had gone from office to office with 
the good-byes. In Clark's office, he closed the door and said, "Clark, I 
have something to give you. Elaine Bettinger. All gift wrapped and waiting 
for the taking." 

"I'll take her." 

"That's just it, pal, you can't." 

"I know I can't!" Clark suspected Bill of being half-drunk, moved closer and 
sniffed slightly to detect the odor of alcohol. There was no odor of 
alcohol. He said, extending his hand, "Bill, we're going to miss you around 
here. Lots of luck." 

"Luck I don't need. Ability I need." 

"You have ability. Plenty of it." 

"Thanks." 

"What is, is." 

"You too, pal. Plenty of ability, plenty of everything. Don't forget the 
greener grass. Keep looking over the fence." 

"Stop in sometime, Bill." 

"Stop in, hell! Pal, once I'm out that door, I'm gone forever from this 
goddamned place." They grinned at each other and Clark thought it was the 
end of their conversation until Bill snapped his fingers. "Christ! I almost 
forgot. We were so busy with our Mutual Admiration Society meeting, I almost 
forgot to tell you how I've got Elaine all gift wrapped and waiting for 
you." 

"Yeah?" 

"I heard your Miss Frostbite of 1908 is retiring. They're going to leave my 
job open for a while to show how goddamned unimportant I was and how little 
work I did, so Elaine has to be somebody's secretary. She told me it's a 
toss-up of either replacing your Miss Frostbite or else going somewhere in 
Accounting. I gave you a big buildup. Told her what a hell of a nice guy you 
are, all that crap." 

"Thanks." 

"I made a slip once and said she's a tease and likes to play. I didn't want 
to go into all the details while I was still working here but, pal, we're 
going to be about a hundred miles apart from now on, so I don't mind telling 
you. She'll never give you a piece of ass. The stupid girl is in love with 
her husband, saves all her pussy for him, something like that. But ... 
she'll tease hell out of you if she's your secretary. Certain times of the 
month, she gets a ... well, it's a kind of hot gleam in her eyes. If you 
work it right, during those times, she'll - " 

The door opened and a group of men and women came into the office. Clark 
watched as they herded Bill out of the office amid a babble of voices. They 
had a going-away gift for him and they'd interrupted Bill's story. 

The next morning, he stopped at Elaine's desk. She was dressed in a gray 
suit and had her hair piled in an elaborate honeycomb style. She looked up 
when he entered the office and smiled. He wondered if she still remembered 
the pass he'd made at the office party. He said, "I saw Bill yesterday and 
he reminded me you'll be looking for a job now. With Miss Devon retiring, 
I'll be looking for a secretary and I want you to know I'll certainly 
appreciate it if you'll fill the vacancy." 

"Thank you, Mr. Vaughn. I've been trying to make the choice. It seems the 
Accounting Department has a lot of possibilities for advancement." She'd 
decided to take the job with Accounting and now she had prepared him for the 
eventual news. Too late to change her decision? 

He idly straightened the IN basket on her desk and moved the pen holder to a 
more central position. He mulled the things Bill had told him and said, "I 
need a good secretary. I guess I can only promise to give you the best 
possible pay ... and promise not to chase you around the desk." 

She smiled, blushing slightly, lowering her eyes and he was not sure the 
latter part of his little speech was right or not until later in the day 
when Charlie in the Personnel Department called him on the phone and told 
him that Elaine Bettinger would be working for him. Then he knew he'd said 
the right thing. 

The first few months she worked for him, he made no move at all. He 
contented himself to look at her, to smell her perfume, to listen to the 
softness of her voice. He remembered what Bill said about her being a tease. 

That part was right. The most subtle kind of teasing. 

Her desk was in the outer office, at an angle from his own desk so he could 
not see her whenever she was at her desk, typing. Whenever she brought 
papers into his office, she had a habit of rolling her chair a few inches, 
turning the swivel chair toward the open doorway of his office, then rising 
and walking into his office. 

But after she moved her chair those few inches she was in line with the 
doorway and he could see her. She also had a habit of not looking toward his 
office; a habit of spreading her legs slightly before rising from the chair 
and - in that position - allowing him a view of her thighs, the tops of her 
nylons, and garter straps. She never turned in such a position that he could 
see the V of her loins - as if she had mastered the precise position that 
would allow him only a view as far as the soft uncovered flesh of her thighs 
an inch or two beneath her loins. And a way of seeming completely unaware of 
the view she was giving him. 

He remembered what Bill said about a "hot gleam in her eyes at certain times 
of the month" and discovered it was true. There were certain times of the 
month when her eyes were brighter, her manner became more friendly, her 
whole body seemed more sensual. He occasionally invited her to lunch at The 
Hub. He learned to recognize the "certain times of the month" as Bill had 
phrased it - the times of the month when it seemed her blouse protruded more 
than usual as if her nipples were hardened beneath it - times when she 
seemed to actually breathe more quickly, her eyes seemingly warm with an 
inner fire - and it was usually during those certain times that he invited 
her to lunch. 

During one of the lunches at The Hub, he experimented by pressing his knee 
against hers, withdrawing it as if it had been an accident, then pressing 
again. As he did so, she began talking about her husband - an idle 
conversation but the truth hit him with an impact as hard as if he had 
suddenly grasped Einstein's theory of relativity. 

He began talking about his wife and about the barbecue they'd had for the 
neighbors. As he talked and painted a word-picture of a happily married man, 
he felt her knee press against his. She loved her husband; she was happily 
married, but she wanted to play. As Bill had partially explained. She didn't 
want a lover, or an affair. She wanted only the excitement of teasing and 
playing. 

After one of the lunches at The Hub and a period of playing kneesies, 
returning to the row of elevators and seeing they were crowded, he suggested 
they walk up the few flights. In the seldom-used flight of stairs, he said, 
"At the barbecue I was telling you about ... We had drinks afterward and it 
turned into a mess. Some of the couples began fighting among themselves and 
one of the wives wanted to go to bed with me." 

"She did?" 

"I told her I was an old-fashioned married man and I'd never cheated on 
Alma. I tried to get rid of her tactfully. Actually, I don't see any harm in 
a little fun, but I don't believe in going all the way. Going all the way, 
getting somebody else's wife always ends the same way." 

She paused at the next landing and leaned against the railing. "Can we rest 
awhile?" 

"We can rest here an hour if you want." 

It was almost completely silent in the stairwell. He leaned against the 
ceramic wall and could hear the faint metallic whirring of the elevator 
beyond the wall. He thought he would have to pursue the trend of the 
conversation or drop it altogether, but Elaine asked, "What do you mean by 
fun?" 

"Harmless things. For instance, at a party, I don't see anything wrong in 
dancing with someone else's wife. Maybe holding her a bit closer than 
necessary. Maybe kissing someone else's wife. What's wrong with only 
kissing?" 

"I agree with you, Clark. I - Well, I have to confess, I'm happily married 
to one of the most wonderful men in the world. I wouldn't want to do 
anything to ... jeopardize my marriage. It seems most men have only one 
thing on their minds. One goal when they're dealing with a woman. The 
ultimate. .But I ... " 

"But you don't see any harm in a little fun." 

"Oh, no." 

He moved closer to kiss her, but she moved her head slowly away. "We can't 
do that," she whispered. "The lipstick ... " 

She was afraid to let him kiss her. They were at a landing between floors, 
but there was a possibility someone could enter the stairway from either the 
upper or lower floor and accidentally reach them in a matter of seconds. Not 
enough time to remove all the traces of lipstick if he kissed her. He had 
placed his hands on her waist when he tried to kiss her, and she guided one 
of his hands down across her stomach to her loins. He felt the contours of 
her body through the layers of her clothing and she slowly moved her hands 
to his cock, probing at it through the layers of his clothing. 

That was what Bill had meant by play! 

But it progressed much further than that. In the privacy of his office with 
the door locked, she had no aversion to his kissing her. His playing with 
her went to the extent that she allowed him to slip his hand beneath her 
skirt and slip his fingers beneath the leg band of her panties to play with 
her cunt. For that type of play she often sat on the edge of his desk with 
her eyes closed until she shuddered with her climax. She had two firm rules 
that Clark knew she must have also enforced with Bill Medkeff: while he 
played with her with his right hand, his left hand was always to be on the 
desk beside her and she always kept her hand on his left hand to constantly 
know its whereabouts; while he played with her, his fly must always be 
zipped up and his penis safely encased beneath his pants and shorts. The 
rules were her precaution that he should not suddenly be overcome by desire 
while playing with her and unexpectedly slip his penis into her. 

Once, while playing with her and she was very near her climax, he felt the 
soft moist warmness of her cunt tight around his probing finger, he did 
become overcome with desire to fuck her, snatching his left hand away from 
the desk ... unzipping his fly. But she slid from the desk and ran from the 
office before he could thrust into her. She had started to react the moment 
she felt his left hand leave the desk and although he'd used his right hand 
to grab her wrist, she had broken free, biting his hand with surprising 
fierceness. 

She was always eager to play with his cock and to give him a climax but she 
had equally well-thought-out precautions against his suddenly being overcome 
with desire and taking her. The only way she would give him a climax was if 
he knelt on the floor with his pants down around his ankles. While he knelt, 
she crouched in front of him and, with his prick aimed at tissues spread on 
the floor, grasped his cock with both hands, playing with him until he 
spurted sperm onto the tissues. In such a position, with his pants tangled 
around his ankles, he was almost powerless, almost completely in her power 
because of his inability to move abruptly. 

If anyone had ever told him that someday he'd be kneeling on the floor while 
his secretary gave him a "hand job," he would have said he was out of his 
mind. But the truth was that the situation had evolved slowly over a period 
of months and, while not as satisfying as fucking, there was a satisfaction 
almost as complete as fucking and one more unusual. 

It was uniquely satisfying to kneel there before a woman as lovely as 
Elaine, to look at her long blonde hair and the crevice of her breasts 
visible above the neckline of her blouse, to look at her soft red lips, 
moist and parted slightly, as she breathed heavily, to look at the beauty of 
her nyloned legs as she knelt there and grasped his prick with her soft 
red-tipped fingers ... watching the blur of her red-tipped fingers as she 
worked on him ... watching the gleam of excitement in her eyes, the rapid 
rise and fall of her breasts ... and watching the widening of her eyes as he 
exploded onto the tissues ... hearing her soft sigh of satisfaction and 
pleasure. 

From playing with each other, they progressed to the point where she allowed 
him to kiss her breasts and suck on her nipples. Thinking that if he could 
lick and suck her pussy he might be able to get her so excited she would 
want to fuck, he had licked and sucked her pussy several times. Each time, 
as he knelt on the floor before her, she had reached a climax, but he had 
never succeeded in getting her so excited that she wanted to be fucked. 

She had, a few times, knelt before him and licked his cock. And kissed it, 
leaving red smears of her lipstick up and down the entire length. And sucked 
it on a few rare occasions - but only briefly, never keeping at it long 
enough for him to come. 

He rationalized that she was not normal, but she was better than a 
considerable number of other women in the world who were not normal. Weren't 
there some women who liked to be beaten and whipped? Although he could never 
understand exactly why she didn't want to go so far as fucking, with all her 
peculiarities, Elaine was much more satisfying than some other types of not 
normal women. 

* * * 

"Clark?" 

"Yes?" 

"This is Rosina." 

Rosina began to sob hysterically. He waited a few moments and tried to calm 
her. His words had no effect on her, and then a man was on the other end of 
the phone. He listened numbly as the man explained there had been some 
trouble at his house and he should return as soon as possible. When he asked 
what kind of trouble, the man said he would rather not say over the 
telephone. When he asked where Alma was, the man told him his wife had been 
taken to a hospital but was not in a critical condition. 

Rosina was on the other end of the phone again, now more composed. He asked 
her which hospital Alma had been taken to and was told the Delaware Memorial 
Hospital. When he asked Rosina to tell him exactly what happened, he learned 
his wife had been raped. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

At the hospital he was shunted from one place to another, from one nurse to 
another, until finally one of the nurses, after several phone calls, located 
a doctor who had treated his wife. He was asked to go to the waiting room on 
that particular floor and was told the doctor would stop there to discuss 
his wife's condition. 

A tall, thin, bald-headed man was also in the waiting room, sitting with his 
legs crossed and glancing through the pages of a magazine with unseeing 
eyes. Clark sat for a moment, lit a cigarette, then rose and stood near the 
large glass panes that lined one of the room's walls. The corridors were 
temporarily empty and he studied the numbered doors, wondering if Alma was 
behind one of those doors. A small neon sign said MATERNITY and there was an 
arrow indicating the direction to be followed. 

As he stood there, with the tasteless cigarette occasionally raised to his 
lips, two nurses came down the corridor. An intern casually pushed a 
stretcher on large silent wheels. At first, Clark thought it was a patient 
being carried to an operating room, but then he noticed the person on the 
stretcher had been completely covered with a white sheet. There was no 
indication that there was a person beneath the sheet except for the white 
featureless shape of a head and the long form of a body with twin white 
hills of feet. The nurses were both young and attractive; their breasts 
jutting sharp peaks against their starched uniforms. 

"He has a high fidelity, all right," one of the nurses was saying in a low 
voice. "But, believe me, when he invites you to his apartment to hear it, he 
has another kind of high fidelity in mind." The nurses giggled softly and 
the intern smiled, not looking at them, staring instead at the length of the 
corridor before him. "I trust Lew," the other nurse said with mock emphasis. 
"I'll listen to his high fidelity if he wants me to. You can't talk me out 
of it." 

The trio passed beyond his angle of vision. Their voices drifted to him from 
farther and farther down the corridor until there was a faint closing of a 
door and the voices vanished. 

He stubbed his cigarette in the sandpit of the nearest ashtray and whirled 
nervously when he heard elevator doors opening. He hurried into the 
corridor, fully expecting it to be the doctor he was waiting to see, but 
instead there was another of the stretcher devices on those silent wheels - 
this one with a woman obviously pregnant and in labor. She moaned and 
clutched at the sides of the stretcher, while the nurse moved her steadily 
in the direction the neon MATERNITY arrow indicated. 

He went to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, 
staring down at the grounds surrounding the hospital and the blocks beyond, 
the rows of brick and concrete structures. Nothing to worry about, he told 
himself. Alma will be all right. 

There was a church near the hospital and a cemetery between the church and 
the hospital. He stared down at the irregularly spaced and irregularly 
shaped stones and allowed his gaze to drift back to the city before him. He 
could see red and yellow neon, the message indistinguishable because of the 
distance but somehow reminiscent of a bar's neon sign. 

It struck him then that the hospital was a central place - it had a dual 
function for the city. Men and women died in the hospital and men and women 
were born in the hospital. It was a central place, a place in which the 
people of the city were both removed from life and brought to life; in a 
sense, the most important heart of the city ... 

"Mr. Vaughn?" 

"Yes." His own voice sounded strange in his ears. 

"I'm Doctor Walker." 

"Yes? My wife?" 

The doctor was tall and oddly young-old with a face that appeared young but 
heavily filled with wrinkles. His hair had been cropped to a semblance of a 
crew cut but spotted with gray hairs. "Your wife is doing well. She's under 
sedation right now." 

"How badly was she hurt?" 

"Not seriously. Did the police give you the full details?" 

He frowned. "I heard she was ... " 

"Assaulted? Yes. It appears she has been assaulted." 

"What do you mean appears? Don't you know?" 

"That's for the police to decide, Mr. Vaughn. It's not in our jurisdiction 
to make a decision, only to treat the patients who arrive here." 

"Well ... has she been hurt? Has she been ...?" 

"Other than the evidence of sexual attack, there are only some minor 
scratches on her body. No evidence of any severe blows or physical damage." 

"Where is she? I want to see her." 

"You can't right now. We're still in the process of the examination. I'll 
tell one of the nurses to let you know as soon as you can see her." 

The doctor left and a few minutes later he remembered he'd forgotten to 
thank the doctor for the information. The tall, bald-headed man had also 
left the room. Pete and Rosina came. And Paul and Beatrice. They asked how 
Alma was and he relayed the information the doctor had given him. Rosina 
huddled in one of the chairs and began to sob softly. Beatrice knelt beside 
her chair and tried to soothe her. 

He told Paul and Pete it was good of them to come, but there wasn't really 
any need for them to wait around. He'd be all right, he told them, they 
should go home. 

"Nonsense," Paul said. "This is what neighbors are for." 

He felt Paul's hand on his shoulder, clutching it. For a moment their 
concern about Alma and himself brought a wet sting to his eyes. Then, 
glancing around the room, he noticed Beatrice as she knelt beside Rosina's 
chair. She was wearing that damned green dress - the green dress she'd worn 
the night he'd fucked her - and from the way her eyes widened when she saw 
him staring at the dress, he knew the memory had flashed into her mind also. 
Paul's words echoed. This is what neighbors are for. And he fought the wild 
urge to laugh at Paul, Beatrice, himself, the hospital, the world. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

No one except himself would ever know exactly how Alma was. She was one of 
the most pure women in the world. He'd met her at a church bazaar. She had 
been behind one of the counters, the counter that sold stuffed animals and 
he'd bought a huge giraffe, lying about it and saying he'd give it to his 
niece as a Christmas present. He'd gone to the bazaar to find Becky. Becky 
had said she'd be there that night and for the past few months he'd been 
making it with Becky. His sole motive in going to the bazaar had been to 
meet Becky and then take her somewhere in his car and fuck her. 

But one look at Alma and he forgot Becky. Alma was beautiful. It was more 
than a beauty of her body, there was a kind of beauty in her eyes and in her 
face he'd never seen before. She was like an angel who had been brought to 
earth and placed in the body of a girl. Talking with her that night, he 
learned where she lived and discovered her mother was also at the bazaar. 
Since they would have to take the bus home, he offered to drive both of them 
home. He began dating her and, while he was in college, he wrote to her. 
During the first summer vacation, he began dating her again, and they were 
married before the next semester. She worked to help pay his way through 
college and he rarely cheated on her. The only times he ever did cheat on 
her were those rare times when there was something irresistible, something 
that seemed to throw itself at him. He never went out looking for other 
women. With Alma as a wife, it was never necessary to look for excitement 
with other women and whenever he did slip and fuck another woman, his 
conscience nagged him. 

* * * 

They had an apartment near the campus. A third floor apartment in an old 
brick house of which the bottom corner apartment had been converted into a 
grocery store. In September, when it was still warm enough to leave the 
windows open, he would sit at the old-fashioned wooden desk and wait for 
her, struggling to keep his mind on the books before him, rarely succeeding, 
his mind always turning to her as she came homeward from the office on the 
other side of town. The fresh smells of vegetables and fruits drifted 
through the open window and often he would close the books and wait for her, 
feeling the excitement build in his blood. Alma, Alma ... Sitting there, he 
was able to visualize her as she left the office, smiling and saying 
good-night to all the other office workers. He could see her standing in the 
elevator ... visualize her skirt, her panties beneath her skirt, her cunt 
beneath her panties. Her cunt but his cunt too, since they were legally man 
and wife, she had been a virgin and no other man had ever touched it. His 
cunt - up there beneath her skirt and panties at the top of her beautiful 
legs - coming closer and closer toward him with every passing minute ... 
down the steps from the office building ... down Maple Avenue as Alma's high 
heels clicked sharply, rapidly. 

Then there would be no need to visualize - she would come into the 
apartment, sometimes with a bundle of groceries or a package from a 
department store in one arm, and she always locked the door behind her, 
secondly depositing whatever she might be carrying, then coming to him, 
kissing him with that warm hungry mouth. They had been married only a few 
weeks and this was when the newness was still there - the discovery of each 
other's bodies, the discovery of each other's passion. 

"Hello, darling." 

"Hello." The verbal greeting - immediately after the kiss, while they held 
each other, while he stared into the depths of her clear gray eyes. She 
always called him darling but he could never bring himself to use any of 
those terms and - after the kiss and greeting as if they had been separated 
for centuries - they would both begin to undress, Alma with a shyness that 
never quite left her. 

Sometimes he allowed her to undress herself completely, but often he would 
be naked before she finished and he would come to her while she still wore 
her nylons, garter belt, panties. She always shivered as he removed her 
panties and he eased her back onto the bed so her body, from her hips to her 
head, rested on the bed with her legs over the edge of the bed, her feet 
flat on the floor, shoving his prick into her soft warm hole while she was 
still wearing her nylons and garter belt, looking down at the beauty of her 
body stretched out before him gloating mentally as he began to fuck her. 
This is my cunt, this is my woman! 

During the earlier days of their marriage, he had not been so abrupt. To 
overcome her incredible shyness, he had devised a game, whispering to her, 
"I brought something for you to play with, Alma." 

"What is it?" her response as part of the game. 

"Here." 

And, obediently, with that ingrained shyness, she would look at his penis, 
her gray eyes widening slightly, her red lips parting with fresh excitement. 
"What do you call it?" 

During the first few weeks of their marriage and the first few attempts at 
the game to ease her into their married sexual life, he had referred to it 
as his prong, cock, or dick. Those names had always seemed to shock her 
despite the fact they were married and he had eventually formed the habit of 
responding, "A new type of car." 

"It doesn't look like a car." 

"It is." He would insist, touching her breasts and holding both of them with 
his hands, squeezing them and gently digging his fingertips into the soft 
curves of flesh, occasionally kissing her while he felt her breasts ... 

"It doesn't have any wheels." Her dark eyebrows arching, a faint, pretended 
frown crinkling the smoothness of her forehead. 

"Yes it does. Feel them." 

And that shy touch of her soft fingertips on his cock, the sensation itself 
more satisfying than a climax with Becky on the backseat of his car. Becky 
the tramp, Becky who a dozen other guys had fucked, Becky so eagerly 
removing her panties, so eagerly grasping his cock and pulling it into her 
body. 

Alma's breath warm on his face, Alma shivering with her excitement, 
partially shy and partially burning with her desires - Alma doing all the 
things he wanted her to do because she wanted to be a good wife. He lowered 
her to the bed and, fighting the urge to thrust roughly into her, moved a 
hand between her thighs, exploring the tender moist flesh. "I see a garage 
where I can park the car." 

"My garage?" Her eyes were closed now, her red lips parted over her perfect 
white teeth. 

"Here comes the car." 

She always repressed the gasp of pleasure or pain or a mixture of both - he 
was never quite sure. During the first weeks of their marriage, the game 
ended, at that point, in the wild union of their bodies, but after they had 
been married awhile, she continued the game. "The garage is too small." 

"The car is in." 

"But the garage is too small. You'd better take it out." 

So he would withdraw until there was only a fraction of an inch union, 
remaining there, kissing her again until she began to squirm beneath him, 
and then thrusting into the soft tunnel of her womanhood again and again, 
faster and faster, harder and harder, until the end of the great wet 
explosion. 

As they became more and more acquainted sexually, she lost more and more of 
her shyness although it never seemed to leave her completely. She was always 
eager to please him sexually and when he suggested that they do it "dog 
style," as he'd read about in a book, it was delightful to watch the shy way 
she poised herself on her hands and knees, asking, "Is this right, Clark?" 

"Yeah ... that's okay, honey." And then guiding his shaft between the soft 
smoothness of her thighs, up and into the tightness of her pussy. 

She was always willing to try any of the positions he said he'd read about 
... her sitting in a chair with him kneeling before her ... her sitting on 
the bureau while he stood before her, trying any and all of the positions he 
wanted to try because of her willingness and eagerness to be a good wife in 
all ways. 

Sometimes they took showers together and, going to the bed with their bodies 
still warm and fresh from the shower, he would press his tongue between her 
soft lovelips, licking the quivering bud of her clit until she moaned and 
writhed with pleasure. He coaxed her into sucking his cock, working up to it 
gradually by first getting her to kiss it, then to lick it, finally coaxing 
her into taking the head within her mouth and sucking on it. 

"I'll do it if you want me to," she had told him. "But please, don't let it 
go off. I couldn't stand all that stuff in my mouth." 

He had agreed and it had excited him tremendously to see his beautiful wife 
kneeling before him with her cheeks hollowed as she sucked on his cock. He 
knew she didn't like to do it - did it only to please him - and he kept his 
promise of never coming while she sucked him although it often took great 
effort, watching her perfect red lips circling his prick and feeling the wet 
soft warmness of her mouth. On those occasions, he had always held off to 
the last minute and then pulled from her, frantically shoving his throbbing 
cock in her cunt and often spurting on the first inward stroke. 

During the last months of college, she reached the point where she spoke 
more freely during their relationships: 

"I need a good fucking!" 

"My lil' pussy is dripping with anticipation!" 

"Ohhh, Clark, ram it in there! Fuck me!" 

Or, grasping his cock and squeezing, smiling impishly, saying, "This is the 
biggest and hardest cock I've seen all day." 

Her sense of humor, often subtle or offbeat, always pleased him and 
sometimes she would see if she could make him laugh at the most awkward 
times, such as while he fucked her, looking up at him with a curious and 
quizzical expression, half-raising herself on her elbows and glancing down 
at the meaty blur of his cock, asking, "Do you really love me or did you 
marry me just so you could fuck me?" 

There were many other times, however, when she was far from a joking mood, 
times when the rhythm of his sliding prick made her gasp with excitement and 
caused her to murmur almost mindlessly, "I'm coming, I'm coming! Ohhh, I can 
feel it shooting in me! Keep on, Clark, keep on, fill up my cunt with your 
come!" 

During those days, after their lovemaking, she always bathed and dressed. 
She prepared a meal and washed the dishes while he studied. After the 
dishes, she cleaned the apartment or carried a bundle of their clothes to 
the laundromat down the street. He graduated and was fifth in his class as 
far as his grades were concerned. As far as every other aspect of his 
college life, he was almost nothing. He had made few friends and he had 
spent almost no time in the college social events except the few he attended 
with Alma. She had become his whole life. He had his choice of the best job 
offers because of his high grades and soon after college they were able to 
afford the house they'd dreamed about. 

By some quirk of fate, he'd married one of the best women in the world. She 
was pure without being frigid ... a perfect sexual partner without being a 
slut. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

"Alma?" 

Her eyes fluttered but did not open completely. In a few moments she was 
asleep again. He moved the chair beside the bed and held her hand. Her hand 
was almost as white as the sheet, almost as white as the walls ... A nurse 
opened the door and then, as if she had entered the wrong room, quickly 
closed it again. 

He decided he would only sit there and hold her hand and not try to awaken 
her again. If she awakened, he would talk to her but he would not 
deliberately awaken her only to talk to her. 

Beatrice in that damned green dress ... He'd managed to almost forget it. 
Beatrice must have managed to almost forget it - or else she wouldn't have 
worn that same dress to the hospital. Everything had fallen exactly right 
for it, he told himself. He hadn't wanted to make love with Beatrice. 
Beatrice hadn't wanted to make love with him. 

Everything had fallen exactly right, as it must have fallen exactly right 
for a million other men and women in the past, the circumstances precise, 
the intermingling of moods precise, healthy bodies hungry at the right 
moment. 

Beatrice had called him on the phone. She said she'd been ironing and the 
fuses had blown. Would he replace the fuses ? She didn't know how to do it 
and didn't know if Paul had any spare fuses in the house. It seemed 
unbelievable that a woman over twenty-five didn't know how to replace a 
fuse, but he had gone down to the cellar and taken some of the extra fuses 
from the box there, dropping them in a pocket and casually crossing the two 
lawns between their houses. Later he was to wonder if any of the neighbors 
saw him going into her house ... or if any of the neighbors noticed how long 
he stayed. 

Alma was visiting her mother. It had been a bad month and discontent had 
been building within him. Alma had been ill for two whole weeks. Their 
doctor said it was the flu, but it seemed much worse than the flu and she 
had spent most of the two weeks in bed. During that time, because of her 
illness, he had not attempted to make love with her. They made love once 
shortly after that illness, but it had been unsatisfying except in a purely 
physical sense because she acted as if she did not want him and did not 
enjoy it. The next day her menstrual period began. It was one of the worst 
she had ever had and made her so irritable that they were constantly 
erupting into bickerings and arguments which grew worse and worse until, at 
the end of her period - it seemed to last ten days - they were hardly 
speaking to each other. Sexual intercourse with her at that point was 
impossible because he would not literally beg for it. The days had passed 
and he had refused to show any desire for her, stubbornly waiting for her to 
make the first sign of her desire through one of her ways: a knowing touch, 
a sidelong glance, a sudden softness in her voice ... But the days had gone 
on and on and Alma, instead of showing any signs of wanting him again, had 
shown indications she might be able to forget sex altogether! 

Then she went to visit her mother for the weekend. At that point they had 
made love only once during the past month. 

* * * 

When he reached Beatrice's house, she said, "I have a flashlight. I know 
where the fuse box is. At least I know that much! Show me how to do it and I 
won't have to bother you again." 

"Unplug that iron before we change the fuses. If you were ironing, it's 
probably the iron that caused it." 

"I unplugged the iron. I figured it must be that." She led the way to the 
cellar, walking beside him and shining the beam of the flashlight on the 
floor. Going down the cellar steps she went first and kept the light focused 
on the steps before his feet. 

The cellar was littered with boxes of various neglected and useless items. 
Paul had talked about building a balcony on the second floor, and Clark now 
wondered why he didn't clean up the junk in the cellar and convert it into a 
recreation room instead of going to the much greater expense of building a 
balcony on the second floor level. He remembered Alma saying something about 
Beatrice and Paul having difficulties. It wasn't anything too serious, Alma 
had said. Nothing like Paul cheating ... But Paul had apparently been 
hitting the bottle heavily and it had upset Beatrice so much she had begun 
talking about a divorce. 

As soon as he replaced the fuse, there was a flash of light from the bulb in 
the cellar ceiling. The fuse sputtered. Darkness again. He told Beatrice 
there must be a short somewhere in the house and since he had no desire to 
spend hours trying to find the short, he suggested she call an electrician. 
Passing through the cellar on their way to the stairs, Beatrice tripped and 
fell. The flashlight struck the concrete floor and the beam of light 
vanished. "Are you hurt?" he asked. 

"I skinned my knee, darn it." 

He lit a match and saw the flashlight on the floor nearby. When the match 
burned near his fingers, he blew it out and groped through the darkness 
until he found the flashlight. The glass shield and bulb had broken - he 
discovered the broken glass when he picked up the flashlight and cut one of 
his fingers. "The flashlight broke," he informed her. 

"Jeepers. What next?" She had to lead him out of the cellar, up the stairs. 

In the darkened living room, he said, "Try the lights in the other rooms. 
Some of them must be on a different circuit." 

At the landing of the stairs to the second floor, she flicked the switch and 
the light at the head of the stairs came on. "That's better than nothing. 
Thanks for helping, Clark. I'm sorry I had to bother you. It should have 
been Paul's job but Paul is - Oh! You hurt your finger!" 

"On the flashlight." There was more blood than there should have been from 
such a small cut. He was dripping blood onto the floor. 

"I'll get a Band-Aid." She hurried up the stairs and - when she was halfway 
up the stairs - he could see her thighs dimly beneath the green skirt she 
wore. In a few moments she returned with a Band-Aid and carefully wrapped it 
around his finger, but he had stopped thinking about the cut - had stopped 
thinking about everything except Beatrice. She was using a kind of perfume 
Alma had never used and he inhaled deeply to try to identify it. As she 
finished applying the Band-Aid, he studied the visible portion of her 
breasts above the dress's neckline. 

"There. Now ... maybe I could use a Band-Aid myself." 

She stood at the bottom of the stairs and put her left foot on the third 
step, pulling her skirt back from her knee. He saw the bruised area on her 
knee but his gaze shifted to the expanse of soft thigh. His desire for her 
must have shown because she slowly turned toward him, pulling her skirt down 
and coming to him. 

"Clark ... " It was a plea more than a beginning of a sentence and he was 
suddenly kissing her. As soon as their lips touched, he felt her hands on 
his shoulders and she pressed tightly against him. The soft contours of her 
body against his body were maddening and the bad month with Alma had 
temporarily deadened his love for Alma. 

Afterwards, he realized Beatrice had been in an identical mood, deadened 
toward Paul by his drinking. But, at that moment, there was no thinking as 
they kissed, Beatrice standing on her toes with her arms around him; his 
arms around her so their two bodies were mashed together. Her large breasts 
were crushed against his chest but more than that, since she was standing on 
her toes, their loins were perfectly aligned and his cock beneath the 
confines of his clothes had hardened so much and struggled so hard to jut 
out straight, it had bulged his pants outward. He could feel, through his 
cock, the mound of her cunt through all the layers of clothing that he wore 
and she wore. She also could feel the hardness of his manhood through all 
their layers of clothing as she swayed on her toes, from side to side, back 
and forth, in a spiral motion, deliberately brushing her pussy against the 
hardness of his prick. 

Once, as a boy, he had seen a piece of chocolate cake on the kitchen table. 
The next act he was conscious of was the act of eating the cake. With 
Beatrice it was like that. He was not conscious of any act between the act 
of standing there with their bodies pressed together and the act of fucking 
her. Suddenly they were on the floor and her green skirt was bunched high 
above her hips. He was thrusting into her and at the moment of pressing into 
her cunt, her legs flew to wrap themselves around his- heaving buttocks. He 
could not remember the removal of her panties, the removal of his own 
clothes; it was as if a portion had been cut from a length of film. 

She moaned, "Ohhh, Clark, Clark! It feels so good!" She threshed her hips, 
and her cunt felt like a tight velvety hole filled with a warm liquid. He 
felt his come gathering for the burst and held back, wanting to keep on and 
on with the sensation of her tight wet cunt sliding up and down the length 
of his prick. Beatrice turned her head to one side, her eyes, half-closed, 
murmuring, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me." She shuddered with her climax, 
holding her entire body up from the floor, clinging to him with her arms and 
legs, her whole body trembling until the end of her climax when she eased 
her weight down to the floor and groaned, her head rolling to one side. He 
had stopped his own thrusting while she held herself up from the floor and 
as soon as she finished, he began to thrust into her again, more viciously 
than before, thrusting the knife of his cock into her again and again as 
brutally as he would have thrust a knife into the heart of an enemy in a 
combat for life or death. 

When he finished, he rested above her on his hands and knees; sweat dropped 
from his body and he was afraid he'd hurt her, waited for some complaint but 
there was no remark about his roughness. She said, "Ohhh ... God ... that 
was wild ... wonderful!" 

They kissed again and removed all their clothes. They went up to the bedroom 
and she took his cock in both her hands, looking down at it, squeezing it. 

"Your cock is bigger than Paul's," she said. "Much bigger." She looked up at 
him, laughing. "Oooh! He'd kill me if he could hear me say that! But it's 
the truth, Clark. You have a bigger rock and you fuck better than he ever 
did!" Still holding onto his prick with one hand, she raised an arm and 
pulled his head down, kissing him with her warm lips grinding against his. 

He slipped a finger into her cunt, gently stroking her clit and then sliding 
the finger into her vagina to feel the mixture of his come and her juices. 
He jerked his finger back and forth, feeling her vagina suck at it and 
hearing her breath quicken. 

"Fuck me all night," she whispered. "We may never have a chance like this 
again." She jerked her hips as he continued fucking her with his finger. "We 
may never find another time when both Alma and Paul are away," she added. 

She went to the bureau and removed a small mirror from one of the drawers. 
When she went to the bed, she placed the mirror on its wire stand to one 
side and, as he fucked her the second time, she watched his prick sliding in 
and out of her cunt and smiled as he spurted into her. "Keep moving," she 
pleaded. "I'm ... almost ... finished." He kept moving within her and she 
suddenly grasped his cock, grinding the knob against her clit, gasping with 
her climax as she continued to stare into the mirror. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

There were no other cars in the recreation area's parking lot. Two girls 
were on one of the tennis courts. Far beyond the tennis courts, some boys 
were climbing the maze of monkey bars and a small girl was swinging on one 
of the swings. The recreation area was between the river and a row of 
houses. The houses were far enough away so that no one in them could see 
exactly what was happening at the recreation area. At the side of the tennis 
courts there was a low flat-topped cinder block building. From the direction 
of the parking area, the cinder block building appeared to be windowless and 
doorless, but he knew it must be either rest rooms or some sort of civic 
association building. The girls were young - somewhere between age of 
sixteen and eighteen, he guessed; but they were subtly different from most 
teen-age girls he had ever seen before - more browned, more muscular, more 
flush of color in their cheeks. 

He lit a cigar and watched them. They wore pleated white skirts and white 
blouses. Their brown legs flashed in the sunlight as they ran across the 
concrete tennis courts and when one of them leaped high to strike the 
hurtling tennis ball, he glimpsed smooth thighs and a portion of pink 
panties taut over rounded buttocks. One girl was a blonde, taller and 
seemingly older than her dark-haired companion. The blonde's body was more 
ripe, breasts more obvious beneath the white blouse ... 

He carried the TV to the side of the tennis court where they were playing 
and placed it on the ground by his feet. They continued playing and did not 
seem aware of him. When they finished the game and walked toward the low 
cinder block building, they only glanced in his direction. He smiled at them 
but they did not return the smile; did not notice his smile or chose to 
ignore it. He picked up the TV and walked rapidly until he was between them 
and the cinder block building, in a position where they had to walk around 
him and could not ignore him completely. They moved to walk around him and 
something in their expressions told him their parents had warned them about 
talking to strangers. "Great game, girls! Man, I wish I could play tennis 
like that!" 

"Thank you," from the dark-haired girl, but both were rapidly moving away 
from him. He followed them to the building. The blonde pushed against the 
door marked WOMEN, swinging it partially inward and half-turning to see if 
her companion was following. 

He had to work fast. Goddamned fast. 

"How would you girls like a free TV? What do you say? Absolutely free. No 
gimmicks. It's an advertising stunt to get the public interested in this 
particular model. Absolutely free. And it works. See?" He caught their 
attention with the word free. Curious, the dark-haired girl turned to look 
at the TV. Now they were both watching him, the TV ... 

He held it at chest-level, facing them, pushed the concealed button in the 
rear and watched their eyes. The dark-haired girl was the first to respond, 
then the blonde ... their eyes blank, suddenly unseeing. He moved closer, 
excitement hardening his loins and quickening his pulse. He had them under 
his command now. He could make them do anything. "You don't know what's 
happening, do you?" he asked softly. He watched their faces, threw away his 
cigar with a flick of his wrist. He decided to rephrase the question. 
"You'll do anything I want you to do, won't you?" There was no response from 
either of them. He added, "Nod your heads if you will." 

Slowly, each of the girls nodded. 

"You won't call for help, will you?" 

They shook their heads. Studying their firm young bodies, he felt an 
increased hardening in his cock, a sudden tightness in his throat. He wished 
the car wasn't so far away ... it would be interesting to get both of them 
in the car and take them somewhere and slowly amuse himself with their 
bodies. But ... it would be too risky. Although he might get them in the car 
without any trouble, there would be the task of transporting them to a 
secluded place, through residential areas where someone who knew them might 
see them in his car and remember the car or the license number. Whatever he 
did with them, he would have to do it here ... now. 

He moved closer to the blonde and slipped his hand beneath the pleated 
skirt, sliding his hand upward along the smooth firm flesh of her thighs 
until his fingertips touched her loins. He prodded at her slit through the 
thin panties and heard her breath quicken. Her gray eyes remained blank, 
focused on nothingness. He used his other hand to feel her breasts but 
although they were large and erect, there was no pleasure in that - through 
the layers of her blouse and bra, he could hardly feel the resilient flesh. 
He turned and looked at the distant row of houses again to reassure himself 
that no one could see what was happening here at the tennis courts. He was 
positive no one in those houses could see exactly what was happening but, he 
realized with a sudden alarm, it was possible for someone in the houses to 
see him standing there - although they might not be able to see exactly what 
he was doing, they could see, even at that distance, that there was a man 
standing there with the two girls. 

He moved his hands away from the girl and toyed with the idea of making the 
girls move behind the building where they would be hidden from the row of 
houses. No. That wouldn't be good either. Then they would be in view of the 
children on the monkey bars and swings. "Go inside," he ordered. 

The blonde turned slowly and raised her arm as if it had become leaden ... 
moving numbly into the rest room. The dark-haired girl followed and he 
hurried in after them. It will have to be fast, he told himself. As fast as 
possible, before another car comes ... He'd have to worry about a car more 
than anything else, he knew. Someone could walk to the recreation area; walk 
there from the row of houses or from another part of the park, but there 
were so many open fields around the recreation area - open fields on which 
there had been no one that he would easily be through before anyone on foot 
could reach him. A car could reach the area quickly ... too quickly ... 
could catch him off-guard ... He ran his tongue over his lips. They were 
standing there, waiting for further orders. He glanced around the room - 
wash basins, neat row of toilet stalls, frosted glass window ... Window. The 
window hadn't been visible from the parking area and, when he came nearer 
the tennis courts, while he talked to the girls, he hadn't noticed it. It 
would be perfect - although it didn't face the parking area, it faced the 
road that led to the parking area, and if he opened it, he'd be able to see 
an approaching car! He went to the window and against the frame but it 
wouldn't move. Somehow, the window had been nailed or fastened in place. He 
stepped backward and kicked it. The frosted glass shattered and fragments 
tinkled on the ground outside the building. He went to the shattered window, 
listened. The children on the monkey bars and swings were as noisy as ever - 
too far away to hear the shattering glass. 

Now he could see the road approaching the parking area. "Stand by the window 
... both of you ... side by side ... " 

They moved woodenly. Like zombies, he thought. They're always like zombies, 
every goddamned one of them! 

"Take off your panties," he ordered. He watched as they raised their skirts, 
their hands moving slowly in the process of removing their panties. He 
unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants, slid his shorts down from his 
hips, letting them fall around his ankles. Someday, he told himself, he'd 
overcome the way they always acted like zombies. There had to be a way to 
overcome it. One possibility would be to hypnotize a girl, or perhaps two 
girls such as these, get them in a car and take them somewhere ... somewhere 
where no one could hear their screams. Somewhere where he could break the 
hypnotic spell while he took them ... let them scream their fool heads off 
... and then put them under hypnosis again, instructing them not to remember 
anything that had happened and returning them to wherever he had picked them 
up. That would have some life to it. This was like raping a damn zombie! 
They had removed their panties and stood with their arms at their sides. 

"Hold up your skirts," he ordered. 

The girls obeyed. When he saw their small soft cunts, he extended both 
hands, slipping his left forefinger into one cunt and his right forefinger 
into the other. Watching his fingers slide into the tender slits of flesh, 
he chuckled. A million men would have given a hell of a lot just to feel one 
girl such as the two he had before him. And he was able to feel both of them 
at once! His chuckling rising to a low harsh laughter as he slid his fingers 
back and forth in their tight cunts, he felt his cock straightening a 
fraction of an inch more until it jutted out straight before him, oozing and 
almost brushing the blonde's thighs. While he continued fucking them with 
his fingers, he leaned forward to press the head of his cock against the 
blonde's thighs. 

He couldn't wait any longer. He stepped the short distance to the blonde and 
leaned against her, watching the thatch of her blonde pubic hair as he 
buried the tip of his throbbing prick into it and between the lips of her 
vagina. The soft lips tightly clasped the head of his cock and he grunted 
with pleasure - not only aware of the grip of her small cunt but also aware 
of the blonde hairs tickling the sides of his cock as he leaned forward. He 
pressed into her until they were completely joined, the grip of her cunt so 
achingly tight that it threatened to squeeze the come from his cock by its 
very grip. He began to rock back and forth. Beads of sweat appeared on the 
girl's forehead and he felt the faint trembling of nervous tension in her 
body. He knew his cock was hurting her although he could not imagine how 
much. 

Her cunt was so goddamned tight it was causing a near-pain in his cock so it 
must be causing some pain in her cunt, stretching it so much, maybe 
something like an iron bar rammed inside her. She was good, one of the best 
he'd ever had, but not a virgin as he'd hoped. He fucked her a few strokes 
but stopped when he felt the come balling somewhere in his guts, about to 
shoot. He didn't want to fuck only the one! He wanted to keep his cock good 
and hard and fuck the other for a while. He would mentally compare the 
assets of both and the one who had the best cunt would be the one he would 
fuck all the way. 

He pulled away from the blonde and sidestepped to the other girl. Before he 
pressed against her, he turned to look through the shattered window. There 
was no car in sight and he told himself he would have to be careful, 
remember to look through the window every few minutes, be careful not to 
become so absorbed in fucking them that he forgot his surroundings. He would 
probably be able to hear a car at about the same time it became visible. So, 
it would be good to be listening as well as watching. 

The dark-haired girl moaned as he pressed the knob of his prick against her 
lovelips. He had to struggle to get the knob in, struggling much harder than 
he had with the blonde. She was a virgin, so much a virgin that sliding his 
cock into her was like sliding it into the grip of a soft but achingly tight 
and numbing fist. He continued to press until he felt the pressure of her 
stomach against his own. He had ripped through her cherry but his cock had 
been so numb from the tightness he had barely felt it. He looked into her 
eyes, laughed, then asked, "What's your name, honey?" 

"Debbie Kessler." 

"How old are you?" 

"Sixteen." 

"This the first time you ever had a cock stuck in you?" 

He waited for the answer but there was none. He wondered if the hypnotic 
spell was not as strong as it should be, or if the hypnosis was somehow 
affecting her differently from all the others. Usually they obeyed every 
command and answered every question. 

"Does it feel good, having a cock stuck in you?" As he asked the question, 
he raised a hand to her breasts and fondled them. He considered ordering her 
to take off her blouse so he could see her breasts and feel their naked 
flesh but decided that would be too dangerous. As it was, it would take him 
only split seconds to pull up his shorts and pants and rush out of the 
building if he saw a car coming. If a car came before he finished with them, 
before he had time to order them to put on their panties again, he could 
grab them and stuff them in his pockets, ordering the girls to resume their 
game of tennis as if nothing had happened. But if he ordered them to take 
off their blouses and bras, there wouldn't be time for them to get fully 
dressed again if someone should come to the area. 

"No ... " the girl was finally answering. "It doesn't feel good ... It ... 
hurts!" 

Studying the girl's face, he noticed her lips quivering as if she were about 
to cry. That would be unusual ... no one had ever cried under the hypnotic 
spell before. 

"Aw ... Are you sure it hurts? Tell me it feels good." 

"It ... feels ... good," the girl said mechanically. 

"Say 'I like having your cock stuck in me.' " 

"I ... like ... having ..." 

"Say it fast," he ordered. 

"I like having your cock stuck in me." 

He laughed. Like parrots, he thought. The blonde was still standing there, 
holding her skirt up around her waist. He began to jerk his hips forward and 
backward, and the dark-haired girl began to moan. Her eyes were moist now 
and she seemed to topple backward a few inches until she was leaning against 
the cinder block wall. When he lunged against her, he crushed her against 
the wall as hard as he could. When he withdrew, the very tightness of the 
union seemed to pull her away from the wall. "Tell me you like to be 
fucked," he ordered as he slammed in and out of her. 

"I like to be fucked." 

Her response was better ... as if the hypnosis had worked but it had still 
been necessary to assert his authority. He felt his guts tighten, threaten 
to burst with his climax. He slid out of the dark-haired girl, stepped to 
one side, and shoved into the blonde. 

With the blonde, he began to move faster and faster, pounding against her 
ruthlessly. Again, when he felt his ending close, he deliberately stopped to 
prolong it. "You've been fucked before, haven't you?" he asked. 

The girl nodded slowly. The movement of her head sent sweat beads trickling 
down her forehead. 

He leaned forward, kissing her, sending his tongue between the softness of 
her lips, into the warmth of her mouth. "How many boys have fucked you?" he 
asked. 

"One." 

"What's his name?" 

"Herbert." 

"Is my cock bigger than Herbert's?" 

She nodded. 

"Say 'Your cock is bigger than Herbert's.' " 

"Your cock is bigger than Herbert's." 

"Say 'You fuck better than Herbert.'" 

"You fuck better than Herbert." 

He smiled. And laughed inside. He delighted in making them say such things. 
He ordered, "Say 'Oooh, your big hard cock feels so good! Fuck me harder!' " 

Her eyes were blank, unseeing. The beautiful mouth moved, the words came, 
"Oooh, your big hard cock feels so good! Fuck me harder!" 

He watched her beautiful young face and her mouth as she spoke. Although the 
words were mechanical, it had a tremendous effect on him. He had withdrawn 
his cock to the very tip and now he lunged into her viciously. He lost all 
control and fucked her as hard as his thrusting hips could manage. His cock 
seemed on fire and he felt the gobs of come shooting into her. At the last 
spurts of his liquid, he leaned back and stared down at the slight mound of 
her pink stomach, wishing he had X-ray eyes and could see inside her cunt, 
see his hard cock spurting inside her. 

He stepped back, sliding his limp prick from her, a few last drops of come 
oozing from the slit in the head and dripping to the floor. He stared at the 
blonde's cunt. The lips were still partway open, closing slowly as if numb 
and not able to close quickly and naturally. Twin rivers of his come 
trickled down her thighs. 

He wanted to fuck them again but it would take something extra to get his 
prick hard again, something more than the desire. He told them to jerk on 
his cock and he watched their soft hands as they played with him. His cock 
hardened some, but they were too inexperienced and clumsy. He told them to 
get down on the floor and suck each other. They did it, but lay on their 
sides. He ordered the dark-haired girl to lay on the bottom with the blonde 
kneeling above her. They began sucking each other in that position and he 
watched the dark-haired girl suck the white mass of his come from the 
blonde's cunt. It excited him so much that he crouched behind the blonde and 
shoved his prick between the soft curves of her buttocks, into the tightness 
of her asshole. He fucked her in the ass a few moments and then roughly 
shoved the blonde's head away from the dark-haired girl's cunt, shoving his 
prick into it. The dark-haired girl kept sucking the blonde's cunt while he 
fucked, and he groaned as he shot another heavy load of come into the tight 
cunt beneath him. 

He heard the car and jumped up, running to look through the window. It was a 
car at the top of the hill that bordered the recreation area. He began 
dressing and ordered, "play another game of tennis. You won't remember me 
and you won't remember what I did." 

They moved toward the door. He followed, picking up the two panties and 
stuffing them in a pocket. He hurried out of the building and toward his car 
... picking up the portable TV where he'd left it not far from the door. 

The car was closer than he'd estimated it would be. Perhaps close enough for 
the occupants to notice he left the building from the door marked WOMEN? He 
fought the urge to turn and look at the car. From the corner of an eye, he 
could see the car had moved into a parking space some distance from his own 
car. He kept his head turned away and placed the TV on the back seat. He 
slid behind the steering wheel, closed the door, and forced himself to light 
a cigar. 

Appear casual, he told himself. Appear casual. He puffed on the cigar for a 
few long seconds and then started the car. As he swung out of the parking 
area, he glanced at the tennis courts and saw the girls had resumed their 
tennis, exactly as they had been playing before, exactly as if nothing had 
happened. 

* * * 

This was the third time he'd caught two girls at once, he remembered. The 
first time had been in that park in Harrisburg. The girls had been about the 
same age as these two and at that time he had still been experimenting with 
the machine to see exactly what it could do. As part of the experiment, 
after he was sure the girls were hypnotized, he had ordered them to take off 
their clothes. When they obediently removed their clothes, he had then 
ordered them to suck each other. It had been excruciatingly exciting to 
watch their young naked bodies curled there on the grass, watch their mouths 
and tongues as they worked at the task. One of the girls, even in the depths 
of the hypnosis, had reached a climax, her body shuddering with a violence 
that jiggled her firm, apple-round breasts. She had sighed in the throes of 
her climax; he had suspected it was the first she'd ever experienced and he 
had been about to fuck one of the girls when he heard someone coming through 
the park toward them. Because of the danger of having to engage a third 
person in the hypnosis, he'd left the two girls and hurried away. 

Later he had started to wonder - how many people could the machine hypnotize 
at once? Had he been foolish to worry about hypnotizing three people at 
once? Could the machine catch and hold three or four people at the same 
time? 

Returning to the same park a few days later he had tried to find a group of 
three and had, instead, stumbled across a group of five. They were in a 
secluded area of the park by the river. There were no paths on the other 
side of the river due to the thick growth of brush there and bushes on a 
slight hill blocked the area from the nearby path on this side. He had left 
the path because he had heard the water and thought of sitting on a rock by 
the river, smoking a cigar before continuing his search. 

It was the wrong kind of group. Four husky young boys and a single, 
miniskirted girl. From the expressions on their faces, they had been about 
to gang-bang the girl and, judging from the girl's expression, she had been 
eagerly awaiting the gang-banging. The girl sat near a tree and when he 
glanced in her direction, he caught the movement of her skirt as she pulled 
it down and brought her knees together. A boy sat next to her and he guessed 
the boy had been playing with her pussy. A few more minutes and the 
gang-banging would have started, each of the boys fucking her while the 
other three watched. 

"What the hell do you want, fatty?" one of the boys asked. 

"I ... " he faltered, not knowing exactly what to say. The boys were 
irritated because he'd interrupted them. They wanted to fuck the girl and 
they hated him because he was an unexpected intruder. "I sell TVs," he said 
lamely. "Want to buy a TV?" 

"What are you ... some kind of nut? Selling TVs in a park! Go fuck 
yourself!" 

One of the boys came toward him, hands balled in fists. If he had met any 
one of them alone, he would not have been afraid. He could have beaten any 
one of them to a pulp. Together they were too much and, like a pack of young 
wolves, brave in their combined strength. If all four of them jumped him at 
once, they could have torn him apart. Even while he thought about the odds, 
two more of the boys came toward him, hands in fists. 

"It's the best damn portable TV in the world," he said rapidly, pushing the 
control button. "Runs on regular flashlight size D batteries, color, and 
picks up all the UHF channels. Look at the sharpness and detail." 

They fell into it one by one. Although they had no doubt intended to jump 
him, they glanced at the screen as they came toward him. The boys stopped in 
their tracks. The girl was the last to look at the screen. She had been 
watching the boys and frowned in bewilderment when she saw them freeze in 
their tracks. Still frowning, she looked at the screen. The frown froze on 
her forehead as she saw the flashing hypnotic pattern. She had been about to 
raise one arm for some reason and the arm froze in midair, fingers of that 
hand slightly splayed. Her red lips were parted and saliva ran down the 
corner of her small chin. He knew then that the girl had been excited by the 
idea of the four boys attacking him. If they had been able to go through 
with it, she would have watched, drooling with excitement. 

Under other circumstances, he would have fucked the girl and left it at 
that. But the boys had called him "fatty." They had said, "Go fuck 
yourself!" and he had to have some sort of revenge. 

He ordered the four boys to take off their clothes. There was nothing about 
them to suggest they were homosexuals and the very fact that they had come 
together to gang-bang the girl indicated they were not. He ordered two of 
the boys to get down on the grass and suck each other, ordering the 
remaining two to fuck the first two in the ass. They had some trouble 
getting into the position, but they struggled into it and proceeded. He 
watched for a while. The boys were all muscular as if they were the kind who 
constantly took part in some sport such as baseball, football, or 
basketball. Their cocks were good-sized and sleek in their youth. Young 
cocks, he thought. Later on, their cocks will not be quite that sleek and 
the veins will show more. 

He kept watching until he heard the girl whimper. He went to her and found 
her staring at the boys. The sight of the four hard pricks and two boys 
sucking each other while the other two fucked was causing a whimpering deep 
in her throat. Despite the hypnosis, the vision had gotten through to her 
mind. She had pulled up her skirt and was playing with herself in her 
excitement, although her eyes were glazed and he knew she would never 
remember. 

He knelt beside her, lit a cigar, and listened. All he could hear were the 
boys groaning and grunting as they sucked and fucked. They were climaxing, 
spurting their come into mouths and assholes, but they kept right on since 
he had not told them to stop. He glanced at them only briefly and noticed 
two of their cocks go limp and then immediately harden again as they 
continued sucking and fucking. He wondered how many climaxes they would have 
in a row but the girl's flexing hands seen from the corner of an eye caught 
his attention and he turned to watch her. 

She held her pussy lips apart while she tickled the pink bud of her clit 
with the tip of a finger. She had one of the largest clits he'd ever seen 
and it was standing straight up in the moist folds of pink flesh, quivering. 
She had two other fingers jammed in her hole as far as they could go, 
jerking them in and out with a fucking motion while the remainder of her 
fingers caressed the furry mound of her sex, fingertips running excitedly 
back and forth in the strands of hair. His eyes widened as he realized she 
was using all of her fingers in one way or another. She was an expert at 
playing with herself! He knew she must be some kind of nympho and he quickly 
removed his pants and shorts, shoving his throbbing cock into her cunt as he 
pulled her fingers away. 

She was a slender girl with a narrow waist and overly wide hips. Her eyes 
rolled as he fucked her and her lips curled in a smile, despite the 
hypnosis. The whimpering turned to a warm and joyous moaning. He felt her 
cunt spasmodically clutching his sliding cock. She had one orgasm while he 
only began to fuck her and she trembled violently. He kept on fucking her as 
he felt her juices well up around the hard length of his prick, her hips 
jerked and she went "Uh-uh-uh" through parted lips as she came a second 
time, less violently. He shot into her and slid from her while her hips 
began still another rhythmic beat as if seeking a third climax. He dressed 
and found a smooth, dead tree branch about an inch and a half thick and 
about three feet long. Going back to the girl, he saw her still watching the 
boys. She had begun to play with herself again, although much slower now and 
not whimpering as she had before. He put the stick in her hands and said, 
"Here, honey. Sorry I don't have a dildo, but you can fuck yourself with 
this!" He watched a few moments as she began to fuck herself with the stick 
and then he left. 

He reached an intersection and turned left - aimlessly. He had ceased to 
form plans and had fallen into a contented, aimless wandering. All the women 
in the world were out there waiting for him and he could fuck any of them 
... any of the best! 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

"I was in the yard when I heard Alma scream," Rosina said. "I ran over here 
and then ... when I found she was upstairs ... I ran upstairs. I could see 
she'd been ... raped." 

"Did you see anyone leave the house?" 

"No." 

"Did you notice any strangers in the neighborhood today?" 

"No." 

They had given him some tranquilizers and now, in his own home, nothing 
seemed real. Paul and Beatrice, Pete and Rosina, had been answering the 
lieutenant's questions. Sometimes he scribbled the answers in a small 
notebook, but most often he did not make notes. He remembered the 
lieutenant's name was Weinman. 

"What time did you hear the scream?" 

"One o'clock." 

"You're positive of the time?" 

Rosina nodded. 

"How do you know it was one o'clock? Did you look at your watch when you 
heard the scream?" 

"No ... But after I phoned for an ambulance and the police, I looked at my 
watch. It was five minutes after one. I didn't think about it then, but when 
the first policeman arrived and asked me when it happened, I remembered 
looking at my watch and seeing it was five minutes after one. I knew I must 
have phoned the ambulance and the police only four or five minutes after I 
heard the scream." 

"Did you see Mrs. Vaughn earlier in the day?" 

"No." 

"Did you hear any other sounds during the day? Any other sounds that might 
have been sounds of a struggle? Think carefully. We've had cases where 
neighbors have heard strange sounds - being made while someone was being 
attacked - but they assumed the sounds came from a television or a radio or 
-" 

"Wait. I did see Alma earlier in the day." 

"What time was it?" 

"I can't remember ... No ... I remember. I had just put some clothes in the 
washer. I came upstairs and I saw Alma going in her house. She was carrying 
a basket." 

"A basket?" 

"A clothes basket. Alma doesn't like to use a dryer. Except in the winter. 
In the summer, she hangs her clothes on the lines in the backyard. She says 
that makes them fresher. I guess it does but, personally, I don't have the 
patience to lug clothes up and down stairs and hang them outside on lines. 
It's easier to toss them in a dryer." 

"What time did you see her with the basket?" 

"I can't remember. I didn't look at my watch then. I didn't have any reason 
to." 

The lieutenant turned to Beatrice. "Did you see Mrs. Vaughn any time during 
the day previous to the attack?" 

"No." 

"I remember," Rosina interrupted. "It must have been about a quarter of 
twelve. Because I watched the Lucy show from eleven to eleven-thirty. Then I 
went downstairs to put the clothes in the washer. By the time I came 
upstairs again and happened to look out a window and saw her, ten or fifteen 
minutes must have passed ... so it must have been about a quarter of 
twelve." 

"You didn't notice anything unusual when you saw her going into the house?" 

"No." 

"So that means she was attacked between a quarter of twelve and one 
o'clock," Pete murmured thoughtfully. It was the first time he had spoken 
while the lieutenant had been there and everyone turned to look at him. 

The lieutenant made a notation in his notebook. "That's all for now," he 
announced. "If any of you can add anything ... if you think of something 
else that might be a help, let me know." 

Clark watched as his neighbors left. The policeman remained in the chair - 
motionless - but his gaze wandered slowly about the room as if seeking a 
clue that had previously eluded him. Clark felt some of the tension slide 
away from him. It wasn't the end of the world. Everything would be right 
again. Alma would soon be out of the hospital and home again. She would 
never forget the experience, and he would never forget the experience, but 
the horror of it would gradually diminish, the importance would gradually 
diminish, never vanish completely but dwindle down to comparative 
insignificance. 

Helen Reardon had been raped, Clark recalled. By three men. Brutally beaten 
and left in a field to die. She had spent weeks in the hospital and there 
had been many months before she began to show any signs of emotional 
recovery. But, eventually, she had recovered almost completely. Both he and 
Alma had visited the Reardon's several months after the incident and it had 
been difficult to see any difference in Helen. She had laughed at jokes much 
the same way she had before, her appearance had hardly changed ... 

The phone rang. The policeman answered, listened intently. When he hung up 
the phone there was a strange expression on his face and Clark listened with 
a new shock as the policeman explained Alma had ... 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Alma rose slowly from the murkiness of the nightmare. She had gone through 
nightmares before but this was worse than any she had ever had before. This 
was pure horror, a running and falling with an unspeakable ugliness 
continually upon her. She rose slowly from the horror and the murkiness, 
with it slipping away from her, behind her, beneath her. At the last 
instant, she felt as if she had left a huge dark room echoing with screams. 

The girl was pretty. White uniform. "Feel better now, Mrs. Vaughn?" 

The girl stood there as if waiting for a reply but Alma could think of no 
reply. Where was she? What had happened? She closed her eyes and a mud of 
horror tugged at her ankles, a quicksand of horror grasping to pull her down 
into the huge dark room where her screams were still echoing - distant now 
but still heard faintly. 

She opened her eyes again and found her hands were clutching the white 
sheets, her fingernails aching as they pressed against the mattress beneath 
the sheets. Her body was covered with sweat, her heart racing ... 

The pretty girl in the white uniform smiled. "Everything's going to be all 
right, Mrs. Vaughn. I'll find the doctor ... " 

* * * 

She was alone in the room. Her body felt strange, as if someone had sapped 
it of strength. She closed her eyes again and the quicksand of horror was 
stronger. The world tilted and spun crazily until she was dizzy with the 
blur of images. 

The fat salesman was looking at her naked body again, his thick lips peeled 
across yellowed teeth. Here we go, the words hissed. She felt him press his 
prick into her, heard his sigh of satisfaction, and watched as he fucked her 
faster and faster ... The fat salesman vanished. She stared at the walls of 
the room, her hands on the bed. 

What happened to me? She could remember nothing. She closed her eyes and 
tried to remember exactly what had happened. The fat salesman returned in 
the darkness and, once more, she felt his hands on her breasts, felt the 
warmth of his breath against her face as she lay beneath him while he ... Up 
from the horror to the nothingness and amnesia of reality, down again to the 
horror of memory ... He stood in the doorway and held the TV before her. The 
screen was bright, spinning, sucking her to a bright whirlpool that ended on 
the bed with the voice: Ah, honey, come on, look at my cock, his hands 
gripping her head, turning it ... 

She struggled without moving, screamed without voice. Up from horror, down 
to horror, endlessly through timelessness, struggling to remember the 
horror, to examine it in reality, and know what had happened to her; with it 
always escaping her, something always drawing the memory away from her so it 
could be grasped and known no longer than an instant, endlessly dwindling to 
oblivion. 

Alma moved across the room and out of the room, down the hall. She felt his 
cock in her cunt, thrusting, throbbing, spitting. Even while she ran, she 
was somehow on the bed again with his weight crushing her and his hard flesh 
ripping and tearing her cunt. His voice echoed from the corridor walls and 
reached her ears in a whispery hundredfold as if hearing him speak a hundred 
times at once: You got a good, tight little cunt. And now you're gonna be 
fucked harder than you ever been fucked before! She covered her ears with 
her hands but the voice came through the solid flesh and bone of her hands. 
Suck it! Suck it real good! A voiceless pause in the nightmare but a pause 
filled with shifting sensations. His voice again, Suck it harder. Suck it 
harder! She felt the hard meaty mass of his cock in her mouth again and 
heard the faint slurping sounds as she sucked. He was shoving his cock into 
her mouth, hurting it, shouting, "Swallow it!" and she felt his warm come 
filling her mouth, sliding down her throat. 

She was screaming now, the quicksand of horror always a step behind her no 
matter how fast she ran or how hard she screamed. 

Men and women in white turned toward her, their faces pale and stretched as 
if they too saw the horror a step behind her. They moved toward her as if to 
seize her and hold her so the horror could step that one pace, reach her, 
engulf her, but they moved with the creeping slowness of snails on every 
side and she swept past them. 

Doors with words, but the words were black against white, meaningless 
curvatures of black against white, and she placed every ounce of strength to 
flee the quicksand behind her. But it reached her and pulled her down to the 
horror. She was in the bedroom again, naked on the bed. The fat man was 
standing beside the bed and asking her where she kept all her money. She was 
telling him that there was some money in her purse and about the box on the 
top shelf in the closet. The box was out of sight and could only be reached 
by standing on a chair. She and Clark had thought of the hiding place and 
even while she told the man where the money was hidden, she wondered why she 
was telling him, as if she had been hypnotized and had to obey his every 
order ... The man was standing beside the bed, counting the money, more than 
five hundred dollars. 

He was kneeling above her and laughing, shoving his penis into her mouth 
again. He said, "Give me another blow job, honey." She felt his cock swell 
as he slid it back and forth in her mouth, his thrusts becoming more and 
more vicious until her lips and tongue and the inside of her mouth were 
bruised and aching. The man grunted and she was strangling on his warm come 
... 

The quicksand of horror vanished and she was in the hallway again. She had 
run blindly and struck a wall. Running again to escape the quicksand, she 
passed through two rooms where more startled faces turned toward her and in 
the third room she saw the man in white, a young man who stared at her 
breasts because her white gown had parted and exposed her breasts, but the 
man stood before a metal box that hissed with steam ... Gleaming scalpels on 
a slotted platform, she had one of the scalpels in her hand, burning her 
hand, burning her throat ... 

She fell toward the floor and saw it rush toward her but, at the same time 
did not see it and did not feel the floor. As she fell toward the floor she 
found the never-ending white glow as soft and peaceful as a cloud in heaven. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

He opened his eyes and the world came into focus. He saw the shadows of the 
living room furniture and heard the rain. He realized he'd been sleeping. He 
stretched his arms above his head and his knuckles grazed the ceramic lamp 
on the end table. He listened to the subsiding sound and knew the lamp would 
not fall to the floor. It was an incident that had occurred frequently in 
the past - his height was such and the position of the lamp was such that 
when he lay on the sofa, stretched and accidentally struck the lamp, there 
was never enough force to send the lamp to the floor. 

The rocking of ceramic against wood ceased. He listened to the faint sound 
of rain and heard the sound of a car's tires in a pool of street water. He 
strained for other sounds but there were none. He wondered where Alma was, 
thinking she might have fallen asleep in the bedroom, and immediately 
remembered she was dead. He had gone to the funeral and all their friends 
and relatives had been there ... 

Clark yawned and stretched again, spreading his arms so he would not 
accidentally strike the lamp. His mouth tasted foul and he gradually 
recognized it as a stale taste of whisky, a deader staleness of too many 
cigarettes. What was it Hemingway said about cigarettes?" They leave your 
mouth tasting like the bottom of a bird cage. Exactly. 

There was a numbness at the base of his skull but this wasn't a hangover. 
He'd slept it off. And felt fairly good, except for the hollowness in his 
stomach. He'd have to eat something, but first he'd have to urinate. He slid 
into a sitting position on the sofa. His clothes were damp in those areas 
where they had been against the sofa beneath his body. He ran a hand over 
his face and felt the stubble of beard, but gave priority to the items ahead 
as he had always done: One) urinate; Two) eat; and Three) shave. 

He went slowly up to the bathroom and urinated. An instant later he felt the 
desire to have a woman - stronger than it had been in years; stronger than 
it had been since his bachelor days, and remembered he hadn't made love with 
a woman since Alma's death. How long ago had that been? A whole month. He 
went downstairs and turned on lights. He went to the door and glanced at the 
downpour, headlights of a car spotlighting the path of raindrops and glanced 
at the sky, then at his watch. It wasn't late. But the rain clouds had made 
the sky so dark it seemed as if night had arrived. He remembered that burst 
of desire to have a woman and decided to add another item to his agenda: Get 
a woman. The list was revised now: One) eat; Two) shave; and Three) get a 
woman. He moved into the kitchen, remembering how he had often been able to 
keep in his mind a continually shifting agenda of a dozen or more items. Now 
his life had dwindled down to basics. Three items. Previously there had been 
a need for a much larger agenda. Such items as remembering Alma's birthday, 
to buy a card, to buy a gift, to discuss a particular subject with her, to 
buy tickets for a play, shopping together for the household appliances and 
furnishings, visiting friends and relatives, the various items of household 
maintenance, and life. 

Now it had all changed. No more Alma, no more anything associated with Alma. 
No more shopping, no more visiting, no more household maintenance. Down to 
basics. Body functions. There were only five main ones, he realized: Eat, 
Sleep, Piss, Shit, Fuck. All animals had to indulge in the first four. Most 
animals indulged in the fifth also. 

Clark ate slowly and thumbed through the pile of mail scattered on the 
kitchen table, separating them into bills, junk advertisements, and an 
"other" pile. He threw the advertisements into the trash can by the sink and 
thumbed through the mail order catalogue in the "other" pile while he ate. 
He felt the metallic pressure in his pocket and removed the .22 
nickle-plated automatic he'd bought, holding it in his right hand while he 
alternately used his left hand to eat with and to thumb through the 
catalogue pages. He paused to hold the gun at arm's length, familiarizing 
himself with the weight and feel of it. He realized there would always be a 
top priority to any agenda he might form in his mind from now on - find the 
man and kill him. It was of such a top priority that he would never assign 
it a number. Its importance precluded the assigning of a number. It was why 
he hadn't killed himself after Alma's death and why he hadn't joined her. It 
was the only thing he had left to live for - then he could kill himself 
because then life would be totally devoid of reason. 

Thumbing through the pages of the catalogue once more, he saw a model in 
lacy pink panties and a matching lacy pink bra. There were other models on 
the two pages spread before him but his eyes focused on that one particular 
model, the shape of her breasts, the softness of her smooth thighs, the bare 
smile of her red lips. The desire for a woman came again, much stronger than 
before, a painful hardening of his cock and a shortness of breath. For a 
moment there were pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes, a darkness 
somewhere in his skull that threatened to engulf him but gradually receded. 
He laughed. 

In the middle of a conversation about women and sex, Sam Raisner had once 
said jokingly to someone, "You better get a piece of ass. You got to watch 
out for that stuff or it'll back up on you." Perhaps there was some truth in 
it, although some doctors claimed there were no harmful effects from sexual 
abstinence. Perhaps those particular doctors were either undersexed or 
crazy. Since puberty he had never been forced to go very long without a 
woman. He had never gone more than a month in his whole life without a 
woman. With the maturing of his body, the growing of the sexual drive, he 
had married Alma and Alma had sufficiently administered to his sexual needs 
- three or four times every week, except for the period when she had been 
ill for two weeks and he had not touched her. Near the end of those two 
weeks, he remembered suddenly, he had experienced that same shortness of 
breath and pinpoints of light, sensation of approaching darkness. Perhaps he 
was more sexed than the average man; perhaps not, but the need for a woman 
was now clearly defined. He would fulfill it not because he wanted a woman 
but because it would be another bodily function to be taken care of the way 
he had urinated not long ago and the way he was now eating. He had to take 
care of his body and keep it healthy, alert. He had to take care of his body 
and all its needs until he found the man who had killed Alma ... 

The front door chimes broke the silence. 

Wally Stephenson. He wore a raincoat but it was unbuttoned. "How's that for 
timing? I get out of my car and it stops raining. Just like that." The smile 
faded. "How are you, Clark? How have things been going?" 

"Fine. Come in." The sky had lightened some; the rain clouds as a mass were 
scurrying on the horizon he could glimpse above neighboring rooftops. 

"We need you at the office, Clark. That's why I've come to see you - to make 
sure you'll be back with us Monday morning. We've saved a pile of work for 
you ... Oh, nothing monumental or back breaking, but some new and 
interesting projects." He sat on the sofa without bothering to remove his 
raincoat. He obviously didn't intend to stay long. 

Clark stood before the sofa and stared at a point in the air above 
Stephenson's head. He fumbled in his pockets until he found a pack of 
cigarettes and placed one in the corner of his mouth. He groped in his pants 
pockets for his lighter and felt the .22 in his right pocket. He found a 
pack of matches and lit the cigarette. The matches had a bright orange 
cover, a cocktail glass tilted at an angle with bubbles in the glass's 
contents. Keenan's Cafe, curlicue script said beneath the glass. His mind 
turned sluggishly. He couldn't recall having been in Keenan's Cafe, but he 
could recall a heavy drinking period the past three or four days - a blur of 
memories of bars and nameless faces ... To hell with it. He slipped his hand 
in his pocket and touched the comforting metallic surface of the gun. What 
he'd done the past few days wasn't important. Nothing was important except 
finding the man ... and he'd have to phone Sid Weinman, arrange for a 
private talk with him ... 

" ... I assumed you'd be back Monday," Stephenson was saying, "but they 
wanted me to check and make sure you hadn't forgotten." 

"Hadn't forgotten what?" 

Stephenson frowned. "Your leave of absence expires then." 

"I ... won't be back Monday. I want my leave of absence extended." 

Stephenson rose from the sofa. The raincoat rustled as he moved across the 
room. "It's your decision, Clark, but we need you." 

"I appreciate that. If my absence is too much of an inconvenience, replace 
me. I'll understand your doing so is because of necessity." He was still 
staring at that spot in the air above the sofa although Stephenson had moved 
from the sofa. He felt Stephenson's hand on his shoulder but did not look in 
that direction. 

"Come to work Monday, Clark. Your job is waiting. We've kept it open for you 
and, as I said, we've lined up some interesting projects. Everyone misses 
you ... they're all anxious for you to come back. I want you to come back. I 
need you. God Almighty. You know how you made those model plants? And 
Maclary got so damned fond of them? Because you weren't there, I had to make 
up one for Maclary myself. The new hydrofluoric plant in Richmond. Guess 
what? I left out one of the acid mix tanks and left out stairways from the 
third floor to the fourth floor. I think Maclary spotted it soon as I gave 
him the model, but he saved it until a meeting when Ozzie and everybody else 
from New York were standing around looking at it and then he said, 'Oh, 
Wally, by the way, how are the operators going to get from the third floor 
to the fourth floor? Fly?' He made me look like an ass in front of all the 
brass from New York. If you'd been there ... " 

"I'm sorry, Wally. I can't come back Monday. I wouldn't be able to work." 

The hand was withdrawn from his shoulder. The two men moved out onto the 
front steps. 

"I'll tell Maclary. I can't extend your leave of absence - only Maclary can 
do that. Want me to set up an appointment for you to talk to him?" 

"All right." 

"Monday morning, eleven o'clock?" He chuckled. "Drag it out an hour and 
maybe he'll invite you to lunch." 

"All right." 

A pat on the shoulder and then Wally was moving rapidly down the steps 
across the flagstone toward his car. He opened the door and waved, that 
peculiar half-salute gesture he sometimes used. "Take it easy, Clark. Stop 
by the office and see me sometime Monday." 

"All right." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched the car as it 
moved down the driveway and onto the street. The tires were audible on the 
film of street water ... the car turned the corner ... 

* * * 

There were no obtrusive sounds in the city. No kids were out playing on the 
damp grass. Lights in most of the houses. Now the neighborhood had settled 
down to its nightly TV, gradual relaxation leading to its oblivion of sleep. 
Tomorrow morning the kids would return with their raucousness. The world was 
turning slowly beneath him and as he stood there - looking at the shadows of 
houses, the city, the world - he felt acutely aware of the city and the 
world stretching away from his sole position. Somewhere out there in the 
city there was a woman he would fuck. He didn't know her - probably - but 
they would become well acquainted tonight when he stuck his cock in her. He 
had a whole month's sexual energy in store for her. And ... somewhere in the 
city - or perhaps beyond the city - there was a man he would kill. He didn't 
know that man either but someday they would become well acquainted. The .22 
would kill him. Not the first slug, perhaps not the first few but the total 
of ten striking in a tight circle of the man's heart or stomach would kill 
him! 

He threw his cigarette out on the lawn and watched the fiery arc. He inhaled 
deeply and the fresh damp air was soothing. Stephenson hadn't mentioned Alma 
... And Stephenson had changed. Admitting the model plant blunder was 
entirely new. He'd never heard Stephenson admit any mistake before. 
Stephenson seemed more humble, as if a month had worn off some of his rough 
edges. Or - Stephenson had stood by Alma's grave also. Perhaps Alma's death 
had changed Stephenson. 

"Clark?" Beatrice was standing on the lawn near the steps, looking up at 
him. She had moved silently across the lawn from her house. 

He looked down at her but could think of nothing to say. There were 
important things to be done. One, shave. Two, phone Sid Weinman. Three, get 
a woman ... 

"Want to see our balcony, Clark? Paul finished it today." 

He turned to face her and his lips parted to say No, but then he remembered 
the time he'd fucked her. Everything had fallen exactly right then. That one 
instance they had been alone long enough to make it. Since then they had 
never been alone. Since then Alma had always been with him or else Paul had 
always been with her. He glanced at the driveway of the adjoining house and 
saw Paul's station wagon was gone. That meant she was alone in the house ... 

She could be the woman. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

"I'm taking care of Bobby and Judy," Beatrice explained. "You know Pete and 
Rosina won a week's vacation in Florida. They didn't want to go ... said 
what would a week in Florida be with two kids ... said they might as well go 
to Ocean City, New Jersey. I said it was foolish- not to take it since it 
was free and I volunteered to take care of the kids. My big mouth again." 
She shrugged her shoulders. They were moving across her front porch and she 
gestured with a finger across her lips. "Don't talk too loud. Rosina says 
they wake up if a mouse trips. And I always thought kids slept like logs!" 

They moved silently through the house and up the flight of stairs. He 
noticed that each room only had one light on with the result that the house 
was semi-illuminated. He remembered that Paul and Beatrice had planned the 
balcony as long ago as last summer; he remembered the sketch Paul had drawn 
on a piece of paper on their picnic table. 

"Here it is. Our pride and joy." Beatrice turned on a light. 

He glanced at the aluminum plastic-webbed chairs, the small round table, the 
potted plants, the chaise lounge, the awnings that stretched above the 
screened windows. "Paul did a hell of a good job," he muttered. 

"The breeze up here is wonderful. Feel it?" 

He could feel the breeze against his face and chest. He lit a cigarette and 
turned toward Beatrice. She was wearing a tan linen dress that hugged the 
curves of her body. He looked at her long curving legs and remembered how it 
had been ... 

She turned off the light. "We don't really need the light," she explained. 
"And, with the light, up this high, you feel as if you're on a stage! Have a 
seat, Clark. Paul went out to get some ice cream. We wanted to ask you over 
to see the balcony but we saw you had company, so Paul said to ask you to 
come over if your company left while he was getting the ice cream. He's so 
darn proud of this balcony ... you might think he'd designed a whole plant 
or something the way you do on your job." 

Clark walked across the balcony and looked down at the lawn and rows of 
shrubs, the white picket fence that divided Paul's property from their 
neighbor's. Desire swelled in his loins. He turned away from the screened 
window and saw Beatrice in the faint glow of moonlight on the balcony. She 
was sitting in one of the plastic-webbed chairs, her legs crossed. He stared 
at the soft and curving flesh of her legs and the desire in his cock was 
undeniable. 

She gasped when he pulled her up from the chair and crushed her body against 
his. He ended the gasp by pressing his mouth tightly against hers. He felt 
the roundness of her breasts flattened against his chest and he kept one arm 
around her shoulders to hold the upper portion of her body against him while 
he moved his other arm down - cupping her buttocks with a hand and pulling 
the lower portion of her body against him until he felt the pressure of her 
stomach and thighs and loins against his own body. She twisted an arm behind 
her in a futile attempt to remove the hand from her buttocks - and managed 
to twist her mouth away from his. 

"No. Clark! No!" She had thought she was safe from anything such as this - 
safe because Paul would return soon; safe because Rosina's children were in 
the house and, in a sense, they were not alone. Paul didn't have the 
slightest idea he'd attempt anything such as this - or else he wouldn't have 
suggested Beatrice invite Clark over while he was away ... 

"I need you, Beatrice. I want you, I need you so much, I -" 

"No, no, no! Please, Clark ... " She began crying. His cock ached with the 
growing desire for her. 

He thought, We made love before. Why not now? There will be time before Paul 
returns. But he knew it would be best not to use words, best to simply force 
himself upon her and, once he had taken her, there would be no turning back, 
she couldn't tell Paul. She had kept the secret of their previous 
lovemaking. Now she would have another lovemaking to keep secret. 

In her attempt to escape him, she retreated against the brick wall of the 
house that served as the interior wall of the balcony. He held her there 
with the pressure of his body and slid his hands up beneath her skirt. He 
grasped the waistband of her panties and began pulling them down. She 
stopped fighting. One of her arms' dangled helplessly and she held the small 
fist of a hand against her open mouth as if to suffocate her sobbing. 

As he pulled her panties down the length of her thighs, his knuckles brushed 
the furry patch of her cunt and with a new urgency to his lust, he 
unzippered his fly and drew his cock free of his clothing. He raised the 
front of her skirt to her waist and held it there while he stepped forward, 
the moonlight clearly showing the triangular target ... The tip of his 
manhood touched the triangular target. He slid the tip through the hair to 
crush into the soft warm crevice of her cunt ... It wasn't working. He 
managed to get the head of his cock between her labia and the moist velvety 
flesh felt maddeningly good but he could not get into her vagina. She was 
standing wrong, or he was standing wrong - it was hard to tell. 

He slid his glands back and forth between her cunt lips and heard himself 
moaning softly. God. A whole month without a woman. He had not really 
thought about fucking until today but now, with his cock brushing against 
Beatrice's soft cunt, he felt as if he had a mountain of come in his balls 
and it would burst like a landslide at the slightest touch. 

Something else was wrong. Beatrice was crying, shifting her position as she 
tried to keep him from shoving into her while he still kept her pinned to 
the wall. His prick skidded away from her cunt and between the round columns 
of her soft thighs. He jerked his cock back and forth, crazily enjoying even 
the slight pressure of her thighs on each side of his achingly hard shaft. A 
kind of madness gripped him and he placed his hands on her waist, jerking 
his cock between her two curved thighs, thinking with a pure madness that he 
would fuck her thighs that way and spurt his come against the wall behind 
her. 

"Paul's coming back!" 

He heard the slam of the car door. Paul's footsteps on the driveway. Soft 
whistling. But Clark's hips and his prick were independent of his mind. A 
month's gathered lust had severed all the strings. He kept on fucking her 
soft thighs until she frantically shoved against his chest. He stumbled 
backward and felt, in that moment of separation, his cock spurting a long 
steady stream of come into the darkness. 

His breathing was ragged and he could hear Beatrice sobbing. He turned and 
shoved his manhood in his pants, zipping up the fly, only partly aware that 
a cloud must have passed before the moon because the whole balcony had 
suddenly turned black. He groped through the darkness until he felt a chair, 
dropped into it. He heard the scrape of another chair as Beatrice settled 
into it ... heard Beatrice's sobbing gradually subside and die. 

"Beatrice?" Paul's voice calling from the first floor. "Beatrice?" The 
muffled sound of his footsteps on the carpeted stairs. 

"Hi, Clark. Did Beatrice give you the grand tour? How do you like it?" A 
wind thousands of feet in the sky had moved the cloud away from the moon. 
The faint moonlight had returned to the balcony. 

"Great job of engineering." His voice was too husky. He tried to correct it 
as he added, "You've qualified as an engineer for the firm." 

"Chocolate and vanilla, Beatrice. That's all they had. I put it in the 
freezer." 

Clark felt his heartbeat slow and he reached for the pack of cigarettes in 
his shirt pocket. Beads of sweat were trickling down his cheeks, itching the 
stubble of beard. The balcony was a dimly lighted stage and he watched the 
actors as they moved through their roles. The actor named Paul sat in one of 
the chairs and lit his pipe, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 
The actress named Beatrice remained in her chair, but her shoulders suddenly 
hunched and she began to make a strange soft sound. 

The actor named Paul had been talking. Meaningless words concerning the 
meaningless balcony. But he stopped when the soft sounds became a harsh 
sobbing ... "Beatrice? What's wrong, honey?" 

"Ooooo." 

"Beatrice? Are you sick?" 

Clark watched as Paul rushed to turn on the light and knelt before his wife. 
He kept talking to her and stopped abruptly, grasping her chin with a hand 
and turning her face toward the light. Tears glided down the smoothness of 
her cheeks but the light also showed the smear of lipstick from her lips ... 
Beatrice's hands were twisting a small handkerchief in her lap. Paul looked 
down at her hands and, with an animal grunt, pulled her hands away from her 
lap, staring. 

Clark felt a chill at the base of his spine. A cloud had passed before the 
moon. The balcony had grown dark. In the darkness, he had blindly and 
uncontrollably spurted his come. At that same moment, Beatrice had shoved 
him away. Her skirt must have fallen down at the precise instant of his 
spurting. She held in her lap, on the tan linen dress, a large pool of his 
come. She had been trying to soak it up into the small handkerchief - 
working futilely, the handkerchief was filled with the white substance. 

"What the hell's been going on here?" Paul screamed. 

"Ooooo." 

"Beatrice!" Paul grasped her shoulders and shook her. 

"It was all my fault," Clark heard himself say. 

"I'll break your goddamned neck!" 

Clark tensed as Paul came toward him. He eased his right hand in his pocket 
and touched the gun. 

"No! We didn't do anything! We -" Beatrice hurried between them and clung to 
her husband. Her words were drowned in sobs for a while but she struggled to 
overcome the sobbing and only fragments of her sentences were 
understandable. "All mixed up - only kissed me - tried to - but he couldn't 
- I fought - must believe me." 

Paul held his wife while she sobbed against his chest. "Clark, get out of 
this house before I kill you." 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

He found Elaine Bettinger in the Accounting Department. It was strange to 
see her at a different desk. There were two other girls in the office. He 
didn't know them and they didn't know him. They only glanced at him and then 
returned to their work. 

There was a small span of silence before Elaine turned and saw him. That 
span seemed frozen as if the world were deliberately standing still for him 
so he. could study her ... The soft red lips that always curved in a teasing 
half-smile whenever she asked a question ... The slender red-tipped hands, 
softer than any other woman's hands - much softer than Alma's ... The tall, 
slender length of her body ... The long lovely legs so beautifully encased 
in nylon ... The dark eyes that had occasionally flashed with that inner 
heat ... 

He remembered those moments in the stairwell with her and the times in his 
office when they had locked the door and played with each other ... The 
details of the times she had perched on the edge of his desk were indelibly 
stamped into his memory and the smallest details would be as sharp in His 
mind fifty years from now as they had been a moment after the happening ... 

Elaine sitting there with her skirt up around her hips, her nyloned legs 
parted. His hand between the creamy smooth thighs and one of his fingers 
beneath the elastic band of her panties, that finger in her cunt. That 
finger encircled by warmness and softness and moistness, that finger gripped 
by her vagina. Sliding the finger back and forth, it had been lubricated by 
the sweet oily substance of her joy and the sliding had become easier and 
easier although her vagina had gripped his finger tighter and tighter. He 
had felt the rhythmic pulsings against and around his finger and it had been 
a strange but remarkable experience to stand there and watch her beautiful 
body quiver with her pleasure. Her body fully clothed in the sense that she 
still wore her skirt and blouse, panties and bra, garter belt and nylons and 
high-heel shoes; but naked in the sense that her womanhood was exposed to 
his touch and his gaze. 

It had been equally strange and remarkable those times he had knelt before 
her and she had gripped his cock with her soft hands - squeezing and jerking 
on it while she waited for the flow of male fluid. Equally unforgettable to 
have seen her there, kneeling before him - beautiful and desirable - wanting 
more than anything else in the world to sink his rod into her but forcing 
himself to accept her substitute for sexual intercourse. 

During those first weeks and months when she was his secretary, he had told 
her he wanted her completely and had tried to make arrangements so they 
could meet after working hours, but she had never agreed to going further 
than the "playing." As Bill Medkeff had explained, she didn't want a lover 
or an affair, she wanted only the excitement of teasing and playing. She was 
something special. Elaine Bettinger was not like the millions of women who 
would take another man - she was balanced somewhere in-between, a woman on a 
delicious fence by having the excitement of other men feeling her and 
wanting her, and yet still having the clear conscience of being loyal to her 
husband. 

She was like Bonnie McCreary, he realized. Little Bonnie McCreary who'd 
dated boys and allowed them to play with her pussy at the drive-in theaters 
while she played with them - Little Bonnie McCreary who'd always said no 
until one night she'd fallen off the fence - either because one of the boys 
had not been able to resist the temptation to forcibly shove his prick into 
her, or because she had eventually been overcome by her own curiosity or 
desire. In any event, Bonnie McCreary had fallen off the fence that Elaine 
was on. Little Bonnie had started screwing as avidly as she had played ... 

Although he couldn't understand the reason for Elaine's fence riding - her 
seeming illogic of being willing to take a man's penis in her hand but not 
to receive it in her vagina - he had long ago reconciled himself to her 
peculiarities. Her peculiarities were not as drastic as the ones of the 
Go-Go girl in that bar, and in the tick of a microsecond, the memories 
flashed through his mind how Ed and he had spent half the night drinking and 
watching the Go-Go girl's gyrations on the stage. Finally the girl had 
headed toward one of the back rooms and Ed had whispered, "Come on, buddy. 
You'll have to see this!" It had seemed that half the people in the bar were 
crowding into the rear room and there, with the company of a dozen other men 
and two or three women, he had watched one of the most amazing spectacles 
he'd ever seen: the young Go-Go girl crouched on her hands and knees; a man 
beneath her thrust his cock up into her cunt, while another knelt before her 
and shoved his erect cock into her mouth, and a third man behind her thrust 
his cock into her anus. At first, watching the lustful rhythms of the men as 
all three of them mounted toward a completion, he had thought the girl had 
somehow been forced into this group sexual act but then, seeing the gleam in 
her eyes and seeing the shudderings of her soft flesh when she reached a 
climax as the three men almost simultaneously reached a climax, he'd 
realized with a shock that the girl enjoyed the group act and would have 
probably enjoyed it less without the audience! 

"Clark!" 

"Hello, Elaine." 

"How long have you been standing there?" 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"You should have said something!" 

"You were busy." 

She rolled her chair away from her desk, turned the chair toward him. Her 
knees were slightly apart and he remembered the trick she'd had of teasing 
him by giving him a view of her thighs. Now he could see only her nyloned 
knees but he was still getting a hard-on, his cock straining his shorts, 
dribbling. 

She rose from the chair, came closer. "Is this your first day back at work?" 

"No." 

"When are you coming back?" 

"I don't know. I talked with Maclary about it. I wanted to extend my leave 
of absence but he didn't want to extend it. He gave me a free lunch 
instead." He pretended to burp. 

She was standing very close now. He could smell her perfume and look down 
into the depths of her eyes. He studied the mounds of her tits beneath her 
blouse and wanted to touch them. He glanced down at the width of her hips, 
the middle valley that was only hinted at by the tightness of her skirt, and 
he wanted to slide his fingers into her juicy cunt, feel the tender bud of 
clit ... 

She frowned. "I don't understand ... If Mr. Maclary won't extend your leave 
of absence ... and you say you're not coming back to work?" 

"I'm taking my four weeks' vacation," he explained. "I offered it as a 
solution and Maclary accepted. After my vacation, we'll talk about it again 
and make a decision." 

She folded her arms beneath her breasts. It was as if she had completely 
forgotten their intimacy when she'd been his secretary; as if he'd never 
touched her ... 

"Don't you think it would be better if you came back to work again?" 

"I couldn't work. I won't be able to work until that man is caught." 

"Oh." 

She was frowning again. She shifted her stance, moving her long legs more 
apart. 

"Have time for a cup of coffee?" 

"Oh. I'm sorry, Clark. I have a gigantic report to type. It has to be done 
before -" 

"Some other day?" 

"Yes. Yes. Some other day, Clark." 

He took a backward step. 

"It was nice seeing you again, Clark." 

"Nice seeing you again, Elaine. Don't work too hard." 

"When you come back -" She hesitated, bit her lower lip, and glanced 
nervously at the two other girls in the office. "When you come back, will 
you ask for me to be your secretary again?" 

"I sure will." 

She smiled. "Good-bye, Clark." 

"See you later." 

* * * 

He went through Rodney Park on his way to his car. He thought, Bitch! "Will 
you ask for me to be your secretary again?" Bitch! If he asked for her to be 
his secretary again, it would be the same as it had been before. Her letting 
him play with her. Her playing with him. Nothing more than that. Never 
anything more than that. She'd always carry that excitement home to her 
husband and expend it on her bed with him. A good, loyal wife ... Bitch! 

Standing there before her in that office and looking at her beautiful body 
with all the erotic memories, his cock had gotten harder and harder, and he 
had wanted to fuck her more than anything else in the world. It had been 
impossible. It would always be impossible ... 

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt the .22, which reminded Clark 
that he wanted to talk with the policeman named Weinman and see if he could 
help in the case. 

When he reached his car and was about to place the key in the lock, he 
paused. It burst upon him. That nagging weight of guilt - that nagging urge 
to help capture and to kill the rapist. The truth he'd never faced fully - 
the truth he'd always managed to keep shoved aside until now. It was his 
fault Alma had died. Because he had sometimes gone home to have lunch with 
her. That particular day he had not gone home to have lunch with her - not 
been there with her to protect her ... Not been there with her because he 
had been with Elaine! 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

In a booth at Keenan's Cafe, after they both had the first drink and waiting 
for the second, Clark began, "I want you to keep me informed about the case. 
I want to know everything as it happens, all the steps you take to find the 
man who raped my wife." 

Weinman's dark eyes narrowed for an instant. "All right. I understand how 
you feel. I'll keep you informed." 

"I'm going to sell my house, Mr. Weinman. The equity that I have in the 
house plus some cash I have will amount to more than twenty-four thousand 
dollars. If you locate the man who raped my wife during the next month, I'll 
give you the entire twenty-four thousand. If it's the month after that, I'll 
give you twenty-two thousand. The month after that, twenty thousand. The 
month after-" 

"I get it. An incentive to locate him as soon as possible. A two thousand 
dollar decrease for each month's delay." 

"That's right, Mr. Weinman." 

"Sid." 

"Are you interested, Sid?" 

"You're goddamned right I'm interested. If it took me a year to find the 
man, I'd still like the two thousand bonus. But ... I don't follow you. Why 
offer me money? I'm assigned to the case. I have to work on it The taxpayers 
are paying my salary." 

"I want you to work on it harder than you've ever worked on any case in your 
life." Their second drinks arrived. Clark lifted his and sipped it. It was 
tasteless as everything had been tasteless since Alma died. He watched as 
Sid rubbed the palm of a hand across his face and shook his head slowly. 

"Mr. Vaughn, you don't have to pay me a cent extra." 

"I want to." 

"No, what I'm saying is it'd be a waste of your money." 

"You mean you won't take the money?" 

He was surprised when the policeman laughed. "No. I'm not saying I won't 
take it. I'll take any money that's handed to me if it's a legitimate gift 
with no strings attached or if it's money I've earned. What I'm saying is 
you can't pay me to work harder on the case than I would ordinarily." 

"I don't believe that." 

Sid Weinman shrugged. "I said I'll take your money. I'm just telling you it 
isn't necessary to pay me extra." 

"You don't want ... ?" 

"Oh, hell, yes, I want money. Listen, I'm trying to be honest with you. I 
understand how you feel about your wife's death. I think I understand how 
much you want him captured and prosecuted. Look ... maybe I can explain it 
this way ... I do my best on every case." 

"I find that hard to believe." 

"Believe it or don't believe it, I'm telling you the truth. Look ... I'll 
give you an example. Last winter we had a screwy missing persons case where 
a boy said his girl friend was missing. He thought she'd been kidnapped or 
murdered. Digging into the case I found out she was a good-looking girl, and 
I mean really good-looking, the kind of sharp blonde who gives you a hard-on 
just looking at her. I figured she ... well, she'd been shacking up with the 
boy and they'd run out of money, so I figured she'd started working on one 
of the call girl circuits or in a whore house and was just keeping out of 
sight. 

"In other words, I figured she'd skipped on the boy. It seemed obvious. That 
boy didn't have a penny, but I worked as hard on that case as I worked on 
the case where - the Farley girl. You must've read about the Farley girl in 
the papers. Her father had a hell of a lot more money than you do and before 
he began thinking she was dead, when he thought she was kidnapped and being 
held somewhere, he came to me - because I'd been assigned to the case - and 
started talking about paying me to work on the case in my spare time in 
addition to my regular time. I shut him up quick. I didn't want his money. I 
worked on both those cases equally hard. For the boy who didn't have a penny 
and for Farley who would've offered me thousands if I hadn't shut him up 
before he got around to specific amounts." 

"All right ... I'll make the offer differently. The same amounts ... if you 
let me talk to the man before he's sent to prison." 

Sid Weinman finished his drink. He lit a cigarette and said slowly, "If I 
find a suspect and I'm even personally positive he's guilty of raping your 
wife, I couldn't leave you alone with him, I couldn't let you 'talk' with 
him and blow his brains out when you're finished talking with him ... I 
couldn't do it. You can't take the law into your own hands. Maybe it sounds 
corny, but it's right. The question of guilt has to be decided by a jury. 
The matter of punishment has to be decided by an authorized judge." 

"I didn't say I wanted to kill him." 

"I think you've implied it." 

Clark finished his drink and wondered how he could twist the policeman to 
his way of thinking. He said, "Are you afraid of the consequences if you 
accept the money?" 

"I always consider the consequences. I've had chances of making some extra 
money in this town. Keeping my nose so clean has cost me a lot of 
promotions. I could give you some examples of good policemen who've been 
thrown off the force for various trumped up reasons because they wouldn't 
play ball. Think about it. If you have a town with a majority of 
sticky-fingered politicians playing footsie with a syndicate making more 
money each year than I.B.M. does ... and a group of good cops who do their 
job but still aren't adverse to some extra cash for only looking in the 
right direction ... Toss in a party like that an honest cop, the kind you 
see on television or in the movies, a cop that can't be bought ... Can you 
imagine the mess? He causes trouble every time he turns around ... trouble 
for the other cops, trouble for the politicians, trouble for the syndicate. 
So ... I always consider the consequences. I never take any money. They know 
I'm that way. It's taken me a hell of a long time to show them how I am. So 
... I get assigned all the safe cases. Missing persons. The guy who goes 
berserk and kills his wife. The punk who robs the liquor store. The rape 
cases and the muggings. They never assign me to the big larceny cases, the 
illegal alcohol cases or prostitution cases or certain murder cases. If I 
took your money or someone else's money, I'd be giving them a hold on me. 
Sooner or later they'd find out and sooner or later they'd be buying me one 
way or another. I don't want money. I can't single-handedly reform this 
town. I just want to be a cop." 

Clark tried to digest what the other man had said. He had never thought of 
the syndicate very often in the past and it had always seemed a myth 
perpetuated by some individuals for reasons he could never fathom. "I can't 
work," Clark said. "It'll be impossible for me to work until the man is 
caught. I won't be able to think about anything else until he's caught. I've 
been on a leave of absence. I wanted to extend my leave of absence but the 
company where I work balked on it, so I'm taking my accumulated weeks of 
vacation. I want to do more than just sit around and wait for the man to be 
captured. Is there any way I can help with the investigation ... any way ... 
anything?" 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

"Clark? Can I talk to you?" 

He had been cutting the grass, the electric mower humming softly. He had 
noticed a car moving down the street but had paid no attention to it. 

It was Beatrice. He turned off the mower, walked slowly to the sidewalk. She 
had parked directly in front of his house and when he neared the car, he saw 
the bags of groceries on the rear seat. He stopped when he reached the 
center of the sidewalk, remaining several feet from her car. "We shouldn't 
talk to each other. Someone might tell Paul. Any of the neighbors might tell 
Paul and he'll think I was trying to make you again." 

"Clark, I ..." 

"Did you tell him we had already made love?" 

"Clark ... " 

"I was stupid. We didn't have the time. Sorry about that. But we might have 
gotten away with it if you hadn't -" 

"Clark, I couldn't help it. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"I'm sorry too. But all's well that ends well, isn't it?" 

"Clark ... I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry ... I wish there was some 
way I could -" 

"Some way you could make amends. I'll tell you how. Paul's working now, 
isn't he? So ... come on, let me fuck you and that'll make amends." 

Her face reddened. "I wanted to explain ... When you came to the house that 
night ... after I called you about the fuses ... I didn't plan for it to 
happen, Clark. And I know you didn't plan it. It seemed to be something ... 
" 

"It was something, all right!" 

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. He wondered if he could make her 
angry. He wasn't having much luck so far. She continued, "It seemed to be 
something that neither of us could stop. A lot of things all working 
together as if fate wanted us to be together ... just that one time. I 
wanted to tell you that night, Clark, afterwards ... " Her voice had lowered 
almost to a whisper. "It was something that shouldn't have happened. It 
shouldn't have happened but it did." 

He stepped closer to her car. "I want it to happen again, Beatrice." 

"No. Don't you see? It was different then. I knew you were having trouble 
with Alma. She told me about it. And I knew Alma was away for the weekend. I 
knew you must be lonely. I was lonely because Paul had -" She stopped as he 
reached the side of her car, leaned down, their faces inches apart. 

"It can happen again, Beatrice. It can be as good as that first time. I know 
it can." 

Her face twisted suddenly. Tears spilled from her eyes but she made no sound 
of crying. "It can't happen again. Don't you understand? Alma is dead!" 

He had leaned against the car. He felt it moving beneath his hands and 
stepped backward. He watched as the car moved the short distance to the 
neighboring driveway, turned into it, and parked beside the house. Beatrice 
hurried into the house. 

He went to the mower. He turned it on and listened to the electric hum, then 
turned it off. He went into the house to the bottle and somewhere near the 
last drops of whiskey he found what he wanted: Nothing. A Nothing that 
obliterated the knowledge Beatrice must have planned the blown fuse incident 
that first brought them together - she must have wanted him and planned the 
way to get him despite her denial. A nothing that obliterated the knowledge 
she no longer wanted him as a lover - because Alma was dead - because there 
was something in her that kept her from wanting a dead woman's man. A 
nothing that obliterated the knowledge he still wanted Beatrice ... 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

"What's wrong, honey?" 

Sid Weinman turned toward the shadowy form of his wife. "Nothing." 

"It's something. You've been tossing and turning all night. And keeping me 
awake." She turned on the light above the bed without warning. 

He blinked rapidly. "I'll sleep on the couch," he offered. 

"You will not. We'll sit here and smoke a cigarette and talk about what's 
bothering you. We'll either sit here all night talking about it or we'll 
figure out whatever it is that's bothering you. Get the cigarettes." 

He went to the bureau and returned with the pack of cigarettes, matches, 
ashtray. She folded his pillow and placed it against the headboard so he 
could sit there comfortably. After he lit their cigarettes, she said, "What 
is it?" 

"The Vaughn case." 

"You haven't found the man yet?" 

"No. And there's a lot of things about the case that are hard to 
understand." 

"But you've had cases harder than the Vaughn case." 

"I know." He inhaled deeply on the cigarette. "It's more than the case. It's 
Vaughn himself." 

"You told me he wanted to pay you for working on the case, but you didn't 
tell me what answer you gave him. What did you tell him?" 

"I didn't tell him anything. I'm stalling him.' I told him I'd think about 
it and let him know tomorrow." 

"That's what's bothering you. You can't decide what to tell him." 

"I guess it is what's bothering me. What in hell can I tell him? I don't 
want his money." 

"Take his money. Don't be silly." 

He knew she was joking. "He wants to help on the case. I've been thinking 
... it might be a good thing to let him help." 

"You always said you hate amateur detectives." 

"I never said I hate them. I said they get in the way. But ... with Vaughn 
... it might be a good thing to let him work on the case somehow. He's quit 
his job. Not exactly quit, but he claims he can't work ... won't be able to 
work until the rapist is caught. I think he has a guilt complex about his 
wife's death." 

"Why should he? There's nothing he could have done." 

"It's what he didn't do. I started asking questions at the office where he 
works ... You know, to find out if some jerk at the office knew his wife and 
wanted her so bad he raped her. There was nothing like that but one of the 
secretaries there thinks Vaughn and his secretary are having an affair. This 
particular secretary noticed that now and then Vaughn and his secretary 
would walk up the stairs from the coffee shop to the floor where his office 
is instead of riding the elevator. She claims it often takes Vaughn and his 
secretary fifteen minutes to walk up the three flights of stairs." 

She whistled softly. "Hanky-panky on a stairway! We never tried that, 
honey." 

"It doesn't make sense. I went up and down those stairways just for the hell 
of it. People use those stairways now and then. There's no way to lock the 
doors at the various levels. I don't think Vaughn is crazy enough to lay his 
secretary where somebody could see him." 

She flicked her cigarette over the ashtray on her stomach. "You men always 
think of only the ultimate. There are other things besides laying." 

"Such as what?" 

"Such as holding hands and whispering sweet nothings. We women like to hear 
sweet nothings now and then." 

He pulled the sheet aside and unbuttoned his pajamas. "I got your sweet 
nothing right here!" 

"Beast!" She slapped his face lightly. 

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. "But ... I think they were having 
an affair. Sometimes he went home for lunch. Sometimes he didn't. I think 
... the day his wife was raped ... he was probably whispering sweet nothings 
to his secretary instead of going home for lunch. If he had gone home for 
lunch, his wife probably wouldn't have been attacked. The thing that bothers 
me is that it seems to be bothering hell out of him. I saw him the same day 
his wife was attacked ... and a few days later. He was upset then but now 
there's something new. He looks as if he's cracking up ... maybe he'll go 
berserk." 

"So ... helping on the case might help ease his conscience. It might keep 
him from going berserk. What's his secretary like?" 

"Beautiful." 

"Did you walk up and down the stairs with her?" 

He ignored her. "There's something else weird about the case. The detective 
who questioned Mrs. Vaughn at the hospital said she didn't remember being 
attacked ... only remembered waking up on the bed and knowing she'd been 
attacked. She couldn't give a description of the man ... claimed she never 
saw him." 

She finished her cigarette and returned the ashtray to the bureau. She 
slipped out of her negligee and leaned against the bureau with her hands on 
her hips. "Vaughn will feel better if you let him help on the case. At least 
you can let him follow you around as you question suspects and all that. So 
... let him go with you now and then. He'll be company for you too. He'll 
feel better if you take some of his money. So ... take some of it. Let him 
give you a couple thousand dollars for the privilege of bothering you by 
being with you when you question suspects. Tell him to make the check 
payable to the Trenton City Youth Center. It'll help pay for that bowling 
alley you were talking about and you won't be personally taking his money. 
Any more questions, Fearless Fosdick?" 

"Why are you standing there with your naked tits swinging in the breeze?" 

She knelt on the edge of the bed and walked across the bed on her knees 
until she straddled him. She grasped his cock with both hands and held it 
aimed directly at her womanhood as she lowered herself. She clenched her 
teeth with the intense joy as she completed the task of impaling herself 
upon her husband and began to slowly raise and lower herself, aware of the 
still greater swelling and hardening of his cock, gliding into the rhythm. 
"Any more questions?" she asked huskily. 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

From his position at the bar, he could see the top of his car through the 
window that faced the street. It was early in the evening and there were 
only a few men and women at the bar. A gray-haired man and young blonde were 
dancing on the small dance floor off to one side while the jukebox blared. 
He sipped the beer and glanced at the car every few minutes. The TV was in 
the trunk. So no one would see it and try to get it. But, still, there was 
always the chance some punk might steal his car. They'd never know how much 
the TV was worth. If anybody ever stole his car and found the TV in the 
trunk, they'd probably sell it for a few bucks. Hell, that TV was worth 
millions! 

He thought about the two girls at the tennis courts, remembered the pleated 
white skirts and the feel of their cunts. It had been good ... but not as 
good as he wanted. None of them were ever as good as he wanted. All of them, 
once they were hypnotized, were like zombies, it was always something like 
fucking lifeless slabs of meat. 

One of the best times had been the time he caught the two young girls on 
that road in Maryland. It had been a back road, long and straight with fiat 
fields on either side. He had seen the two girls walking beside the road and 
stopped the car, holding up the TV. He had not said a word to them, it had 
not been necessary; they looked at the TV automatically and he had pushed 
the control button. As soon as he saw they were hypnotized, he ordered them 
into the car. 

He had intended to rape one or both but soon found they were so young, he 
was actually afraid to rape them - partly because they were both virgins and 
there might have been a lot of blood splattered inside his car ... and 
partly because, although they were pretty little girls, their cunts were so 
goddamned small that it would have been painful and perhaps physically 
impossible to jam his penis into them. 

So ... he had contented himself with playing with them. He ordered one of 
them to sit on either side of him and then he had unzipped his fly, his cock 
springing upward. Even in the depths of the hypnosis, the two young girls 
had acted startled, as if they had never seen a man's cock before, as if an 
exotic animal had burst into their presence. He had ordered them first to 
kiss and lick his prick; trained them to simultaneously start licking his 
prick down at the hairy base and then keep pace with each other as they 
licked toward the knob. He trained them to - when they both reached the knob 
- take turns drawing it into their mouths. It had been one of the greatest 
kicks in the world just to sit there and watch them work so industriously - 
watch the flicking of the moist pink tongues, the bobbing of the young 
heads. 

He had removed their panties and played with their cunts while they worked 
on his cock. Jabbing his finger into them, he had been able to get both of 
them excited, but had not been able to bring either one to orgasm. They had 
not licked his cock hard enough, so he had experimented and told them that 
his cock was a large chocolate bar. He had used the hypnosis numerous times 
to order someone to do things even against their will, but he had never 
planted a "false suggestion" as he had seen professional hypnotists do so 
often on stages. He found that it worked perfectly, they began licking his 
cock harder and harder, murmuring, "Ummmm," smiling and covering his 
throbbing cock with a layer of their spittle. 

From the licking, he progressed to teaching them how to simultaneously suck 
on his cock - not the glands but the length of it; one of them on each side 
fastening her mouth on that side as close to the base as she could get - 
both keeping pace sucking their way up to the top. During this process, his 
cock had grown throbbingly close to an explosion and he had ordered one of 
them to stick the tip in her mouth, keep it there. He then ordered them to 
use both their hands to jerk on his cock. The four small hands had 
obediently fastened themselves around his prick, many of their fingers 
overlapping and covering his prick completely with a jerking mass of soft 
fingers. They had jerked him off into the girl's mouth and he had ordered 
her to swallow all of it. After he rested awhile, smoking a cigar, he had 
ordered the other girl to suck his cock. It had taken a long time since it 
was so soon after another orgasm, but it had been long minutes of pure joy, 
playing with the girl's budding tits and her pussy while she kept sucking 
and sucking until finally he spurted a warm gob of come into her mouth. 

Later, thinking back on the incident, he felt a regret that he had not raped 
both of them. He could have ordered them into one of the fields and taken 
both of them quickly. Virgins were rare as hell and he could have had two if 
he'd had more guts. He wasn't sure how old the girls had been, but they had 
been probably only a matter of months away from having their cherries taken 
by some stumbling, eager country boys. He could have had those two cherries 
himself. 

But, despite the regret, the incident had been one of his most exciting - 
almost as exciting as the incident with the two girls at the tennis courts. 
He finished the glass of beer and lit a cigar. He toyed with the nagging 
problem. He could get any woman he wanted. Any woman at all if he could be 
alone with her long enough to hypnotize her and make her go somewhere with 
him. But where could he go? 

Whenever he stopped at a house with the talk about selling portable TVs, if 
he wanted the woman, the only place he could take her was somewhere in the 
house. In almost every house, even in the cellar, there was no safe place to 
break the hypnotic spell and take the woman while she was fully aware of 
what was happening. There would always be the chance someone might hear her 
scream for help and always a chance she might somehow get away from him. 

Hunting lodge? A hunting lodge might be good, he decided. If he could find a 
hunting lodge, rent one maybe, he could take a girl there, break the 
hypnotic spell and take her while she knew what was happening. Then it 
wouldn't be like a slab of meat, she wouldn't be like a zombie. Even if he 
had to tie her to a bed or something, it would be better than taking them 
when they were zombies. Hunting lodge. It might work. Find out where a good 
one was, rent the damned thing. Find a woman, hypnotize her, take her there. 
Tie her to a bed. Break the hypnosis. Then, while she knew exactly what was 
happening to her, rape her. She would be alive. She would scream and shake 
like hell ... When he was through with her, he could hypnotize her again, 
instruct her not to remember anything that had happened ... drop her 
somewhere ... 

Another glass of beer had been placed before him. He watched as the 
bartender took the necessary coins and rang up the amount on the cash 
register. The bartender had assumed he wanted another beer. He drank more 
slowly. These damned bartenders could get you drunk, putting one beer after 
another in front of you. He couldn't afford to get drunk ... not with that 
TV in his car. Maybe he couldn't afford to get drunk ever again. When he was 
drunk, he had the biggest mouth in the world. When he was drunk he usually 
said anything that popped in his mind. 

Hunting lodge? No, a hunting lodge probably wouldn't work. How in hell could 
you be sure a goddamned hunter might not be nearby ... might hear the woman 
screaming? It could be done with the woman gagged so she couldn't scream, 
but that would be half the fun, listening to her scream ... 

Tonight he'd have something different, he decided. Tonight he'd get a call 
girl ... 

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

When he left the bar on Washington Street, he noticed the heavy dark clouds 
rolling across the graying sky. After he maneuvered out of the parking slot, 
the first drops of rain speckled the windshield and in a few minutes he had 
to turn on the windshield wipers. He drove south through Trenton, slowly, 
soon turning on his parking lights. A new fear crept into his mind. Suppose 
he was involved in an automobile accident? 

It was something that had never occurred to him before. An automobile 
accident could be almost as disastrous as having someone steal the TV. If 
his car were in an accident, if he were seriously injured ... the TV might 
be damaged beyond repair, or, equally disastrous, if he had to be rushed to 
a hospital, an investigating policeman or insurance man might open the trunk 
of the car and see the TV ... 

He drove more slowly and toyed with the idea of building a secret 
compartment in the trunk to hide the TV. It wouldn't be too hard to do and, 
actually, a hidden compartment in the trunk of the car to conceal the TV 
would eliminate the worry of someone stealing it. He told himself that 
worrying about an automobile accident was foolish but it would be smart to 
build a secret compartment for the TV. 

South of Trenton, on the other side of the bridge, near the Burger King, he 
pulled off on the side of the road. The rain was so heavy it washed across 
the windshield as if someone were spraying it with a garden hose and the 
road ahead was almost hidden completely. It couldn't last too long. Rain 
like this never did. 

Realizing someone might see his tail lights and think he was on the road and 
moving, he turned off the ignition and the lights. With the vanishing of the 
dashboard light, he seemed suddenly engulfed in a wet darkness and a strange 
new fear swept over him. He could not identify the cause of the fear until 
he realized it came probably because it reminded him of the time Pop made 
him go out on the fire escape. It had rained then ... He must've been damned 
young then. 

He'd been playing with a plastic truck in the living room, rolling it across 
the floor. Wooden blocks in the truck - ABC's on some surfaces of the blocks 
and carved figures of cats and dogs and trains on some of the other 
surfaces. He'd found the truck on the sidewalk. Some other kid had left it 
there, a big plastic truck, and it had been one of his favorite toys because 
he'd found it - it was completely his because Pop or Mom hadn't bought it 
for him - he had bought it himself by finding it and taking it. 

A man had come to the apartment earlier. Mom called him "John." Mom and the 
man named John went into the bedroom and locked the door. He didn't pay much 
attention. Mom often went into the bedroom to talk with men. At first he had 
tried to remember their names and faces but then, when one he especially 
liked - one named Bill - never came again, and after he found it was hard to 
remember all their names and faces, he gave up trying and paid little 
attention to them. Most often Mom would give him some money for candy and he 
would go to the drug store five or six blocks away to buy Hershey bars. When 
he came back, the strange men were most often already gone. But, sometimes, 
when it seemed as if it would rain soon, his mother let him play in the 
living room while she talked to the men. They'd never bought him a raincoat. 
It was funny they never bought him a raincoat. Once or twice his mother had 
said she'd buy him one but she always stopped in a bar on their way uptown 
and, somehow, she never got around to buying him a raincoat. 

Pop came home that day. He heard the key in the lock. He started to say 
something but Pop put his hand over his mouth and held it there tight. His 
father knelt next to the bedroom door, holding one of those big hands over 
his mouth ... listening. Mom and John were in the bedroom - talking, 
laughing. They stopped talking and then the man named John seemed to be 
grunting as if he was lifting something heavy and his mother seemed to be 
moaning as if something were hurting her. It didn't make sense but all he 
could think of was that something heavy had fallen on Mom and the man named 
John was trying to lift it away ... 

His father carried him to the hall outside the apartment and told him to go 
play with his friend, Joey. He didn't want to play with Joey but he was too 
scared to say so. There was something strange about his father's face - 
twisted as if something were hurting him. 

He went down the hallway to the fire escape and across the maze of fire 
escapes until he reached the living room window. Looking in the room from 
the fire escape, he saw his mother, his father, the man named John. His 
mother and John were putting on their clothes. His father stood in the 
bedroom doorway until John was dressed and hit John. John's face was 
bleeding when he went into the hallway. His father raised a fist as if he'd 
hit Mom - he was shouting something. 

He started to scream, No! Don't hit her! but the words choked in his throat 
and tears blinded him. He rubbed at the tears and pressed his face against 
the brick wall before him - inches beneath the window. He wanted to look but 
he was afraid to look. He covered his ears with his hands to hide the sounds 
of his mother and father and it began to rain while he crouched there on the 
fire escape - raining harder and harder ... 

He never saw his mother again. Pop changed after Mom left. He began drinking 
more and more. It seemed he was always trying to find a job. Sometimes there 
was hardly anything to eat and gradually, after Mom left, it seemed Pop 
didn't care ... didn't care about what they didn't have to eat, didn't care 
about anything ... 

Pop died and then he was sent to the orphanage. He could remember many 
things about his father - could remember especially clearly the way his 
father held him so tight after Mom left that day ... could remember the 
walks through the park ... the heavy hand patting his shoulder, ruffling his 
hair ... But he could remember only one sentence from his father's lips. 

Women are rotten, his father had said. 

He could remember his father telling him to go play with Joey. He could 
remember other things his father had said but they were only memories of 
what he'd said. He could remember the movement of his father's lips, the 
tone of the words in his ears, heavy there as if they were huge objects 
fallen on soft ground ... Women are rotten. 

He hated the orphanage - hated it so much he ran away twice and was returned 
twice. With the gathering of years, he understood exactly what had happened 
between his mother and John - exactly what had happened between his father 
and his mother - and bitterly understood his father had died an alcoholic 
because of the thing his mother had done with other men. 

He learned to be good with his fists. Damned good before he left the 
orphanage because most of the boys who came to the orphanage were tough and 
you had to beat them or show them you could beat them before they'd stop 
bothering you. He became so good with his fists that no one bothered him, 
not even boys older and stronger than himself. Once there were three of them 
who tried to get him and they hurt him plenty, but in the end he beat all 
three of them. 

The way the three ganged up on him taught him early that you had to have 
others on your side. Just for those times when a gang might try to jump you. 
Although he hated all the other boys at the orphanage, he forced himself to 
act friendly with some of them until he had his own gang. 

He was never beaten. No boy had ever beaten him and no man had ever beaten 
him. He'd learned early. It's a tough world and you have to be tough to keep 
everybody from beating you. 

* * * 

He lit another cigar and when he glanced in the rear view mirror, he noticed 
the neon lights of the Burger King. Not many people eating hamburgers today, 
he thought, and he saw someone scurry from the building. The rain came 
harder as if a rain valve had been turned full force and he heard the rapid 
click-click of high heels on the sidewalk beside his car. It was a girl 
running along the sidewalk - the one who'd left the Burger King - and a 
fleeting glance told him several things: the girl was young, dark-haired, 
pretty. She was wearing a white uniform and a slick black raincoat over the 
uniform. While she ran, attempting to keep her hair dry, she held a folded 
newspaper above her head. 

As soon as she passed his car, he placed his cigar across the dashboard 
ashtray and slipped out of the car. He followed the girl, running also, but 
running in a way that would appear to any observer as if he ran to reach a 
nearby building; it was not the purposeful gait of a hunter or an attacker. 
But he was shortening the distance between the girl and himself - slowly 
shortening the distance until now he could see the girl's legs beneath her 
slick black raincoat - see very clearly the white curved calves of her legs 
as they jounced along the sidewalk before him. He saw also why she was 
holding a newspaper above her head to keep the rain off her hair - she had 
one of those hairdos where the hair had been teased high. No hat or rain cap 
could have fitted onto that mass of fluffed hair. 

Rain beat against his face and splattered on his shoulders. The rain came 
harder and he felt his body gradually becoming soaked through all the layers 
of his clothing. He didn't mind. He'd never minded getting wet. His mother 
had never bought him a raincoat. Getting soaked completely in a heavy 
rainfall was always a strange, pleasurable sensation he could never 
understand ... and yet the sound of heavy rain brought the ghostly voice of 
his father echoing in his skull: Women are rotten. Women are rotten. Women 
are rotten. The words and the hate echoing over and over again in his mind, 
engulfing him with sound and hate ... 

He reached the girl and began to pass her on the sidewalk; both of them 
trotting side by side through the rain. He saw her pretty face flash a brief 
smile at him - for a moment she considered him a comrade in this 
running-through-the-rain-game and then he flung his arm around her neck, 
catching her in the crook of his elbow; pulled and hurled her into the 
alley. She stumbled and her head struck one of the brick walls. He was upon 
her instantly with a hand to cover her mouth but it was not necessary - the 
blow on her forehead had already cost her consciousness. 

Kneeling beside her, he tried to raise her black raincoat above her waist 
but there was some difficulty so he stood and, grasping her ankles, turned 
her upside-down and shook her viciously until her raincoat and skirt fell 
around her chest. He dropped her to the concrete floor of the alley and 
unzipped his fly, drawing his hardened cock out to stab before the hulk of 
his body like a thick lance. He dropped to his knees and tore the girl's 
panties from her body. 

The girl lay on her stomach and, still kneeling in the rain, he studied the 
soft curves of her buttocks. He separated her legs and, kneeling between 
them, grasped each of her thighs halfway between her hips and her knees. 
Still holding onto her, he rose and lifted her. Spreading her legs wider, he 
shoved his cock against the mat of her cunt. He jabbed again and again but 
could not get it in. He held her up with one hand and used his other hand to 
guide the tip of his cock between her labia. Returning the hand to her other 
thigh, he began to fuck her by jerking her body back and forth on the spear 
of his cock. Because of the odd position, he was unable to get in her 
completely but she had a good tight cunt and the position pleased him 
because he had never used it before. 

Standing with her body impaled on his cock, he fucked her by a jerking of 
his hips combined with brutally jerking her unconscious form. He stared at 
the whiteness of his cock sliding in and out of the small hairy mat of her 
cunt and stared at her round white buttocks as the rain beat against them. 
Her face and chest rested against the alley floor, the slick black raincoat 
and the white uniform fallen and tangled around her arms and chest. He 
jerked her more violently as the rain poured down on them and he suddenly 
felt like a king! She was absolutely in his power - any woman could be 
absolutely in his power! He could fuck any woman any way he wanted! 

He jerked her limp form faster and faster. His cock burst with fire, a steel 
rod shattering with the liquid of his come. As he shot his come into her 
limp body, he heard her moan as she regained consciousness and he knew he 
would have to kill her. She had seen his face and she had not been under 
hypnosis. She would remember who raped her, so he had no choice. He raised 
her legs higher, changing the angle until he held her almost completely 
upside-down, pulling the softness of her cunt toward him and burying his 
pulsating prick deeper in it as he shot the last of his come into her. 

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

She was a tall, slender girl, blonde-haired. She'd been wearing falsies. 
Naked, her breasts were round and well shaped but disappointingly small. 
He'd left the TV in the car outside the motel, deciding not to hypnotize the 
call girl. The girl had taken the money, undressed, went to the bed, and 
laid down on it. He studied her naked body as she spread her legs and 
realized she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. 

He grinned at her and pointed at the floor in front of him. "Come over here. 
Suck on my cock for a while." 

"You don't need anybody to suck on your cock," she said. "You're ready." Her 
eyes focused meaningfully on his erect penis. 

"I may not need it, but I want it." 

She sighed. She shifted to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Come 
over here," she suggested. "I don't like to get down on my knees ... it 
hurts my knees. Okay?" 

He walked to the side of the bed where she sat. She spread her legs so he 
could stand between them. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his prick 
... opening her mouth and leaning slightly until the knob slid in her mouth. 
He looked down at her as she sucked. She was good at it although she 
obviously didn't like it. He laughed. "You got the sucking power of a vacuum 
cleaner!" 

She stopped, glanced up at him. "Ready now?" 

"Naw ... Suck it all up. And swallow it. I like it. I think you're probably 
better this way." He patted the top of her blonde head. 

For an instant he saw the flash of hate in her eyes. Then she closed her 
eyes and resumed her task. He kept watching the circle of her red lips 
around his stiff cock and concentrated on the sucking wetness. Leaning to 
one side to look farther down, he saw the hairy lips of her cunt parted in 
her excitement, saw the quivering bud of her clit in the pink folds of her 
flesh. A small wet circle had appeared on the bed sheet, and he knew that 
she hated sucking cocks but it still excited her. She'd rather be fucked! He 
felt his cock swelling larger and larger. He tried to hold back, but he 
spewed into the warm cavern of her mouth. 

While she went to the bathroom, he stretched out on the bed. He'd paid for 
the whole night and decided he'd make her do it again. As soon as she came 
out of the bathroom, he said, "Suck it again. You're good." 

She lit a cigarette, puffed on it before she answered. "How come so soon? 
You in a hurry to go somewhere?" 

"Not in a hurry to go! In a hurry to come again!" He chuckled. 

"You're a great comedian. What do you do for a living ... write jokes?" 

"I didn't pay for sarcasm. I paid for you to suck my cock." 

Again he saw the flash of hate in her eyes. "You don't know what you're 
missing. I could give you a good ride." 

"I don't want a ride. I've had all kinds of rides. Good rides, bad rides, 
and rides on zombies." 

"Zombies?" 

"Skip it. Come on. Stop puffing on that goddamned cigarette and start 
puffing on my cock!" 

She knelt above him but with her thighs straddling his prick. She grasped it 
and held it aimed toward her cunt. 

"I could fuck you," she suggested. "You'd like it." She brushed the head of 
his slowly hardening prick against the strands of her cunt hair and pressed 
it against her labia. 

"I don't want to fuck you and I don't want you to fuck me," he growled. "I'm 
tired of cunts. Christ! What's a cunt? You broads walk around like you got 
something great between your legs. But what the hell is it? A slit in your 
skin, that's all. Christ! I could go to a butcher shop and get a piece of 
meat and cut a slit in it and stick my cock in it and get the same fun!" 

Her face reddened and she trembled in her anger. He felt a tremendous and 
unexplainable inward satisfaction. In a way this was better than the girls 
at the tennis court! They'd been zombies! This girl was far from a zombie, 
she was very much alive and hating his guts every minute but she'd have to 
do every damned thing he wanted her to do because he'd paid her! 

"I'll bet you forgot how to fuck a girl," she goaded. 

He laughed and seized both her breasts, squeezing until she winced with 
pain. "I didn't forget! Get started or I'll fuck one of your goddamned 
ears!" 

She started. This time he made her work harder - holding back harder so she 
had to not only double her efforts but also work twice as long. She paused 
three times to rest but resolutely continued until his sperm flowed. 

"You're good," he complimented. "Damned good. What's your name?" 

"Connie." 

"Connie. I'll remember that. I might ask for you again." 

She rose from the bed and went to her purse. He watched as she removed a 
pack of cigarettes, lit one. She puffed a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, 
hate still smoldering in her eyes. "Ask for me again," she said. "Ask for me 
every day in the week if you want. You know what I'm going to do with all 
the money I'm making from guys like you?" 

"What?" 

"I'm going to buy a yacht. A real yacht. It won't take much longer and I'll 
be able to pay cash for it." 

"Yeah? You make a lot of money getting fucked, do you? Bring me that pack of 
cigars over there, will you?" 

She hesitated before she moved slowly to the bureau and picked up the pack 
of cigars and lighter, bringing them to him. He unwrapped one of the cigars 
and - as he was lighting the cigar - the word she'd said, the word yacht 
registered in his mind with more impact. 

A yacht ... a boat was what he needed! 

If he owned a boat, he could use the TV to hypnotize the prettiest goddamn 
woman he could find, take her out on the boat, way out on the water where no 
one could hear her scream, break the hypnotic spell - fuck her, let her 
scream her goddamn head off. "I've been thinking about buying a boat," he 
said. "Anyplace around here you can buy a boat?" 

She shrugged her shoulders. "They might have some for sale at the marina at 
Barnes' Creek." 

"Okay. Maybe I'll go there and buy one. If I buy one, I'll give you a call 
and you can come there and give me another blow job." 

"I can hardly wait." 

"But I'll give you a ride on the boat too." He looked at her as he waited 
for the answer. She made no answer, only glancing at him a moment. He knew 
she thought he was joking. She didn't believe he had enough money to buy a 
boat. He smoked the cigar and slipped a hand between her thighs, absently 
poking a finger into her pussy while she smoked her cigarette. A truck went 
by on the highway outside the motel and when the sound died, there was no 
other sound in the world. 

She finished her cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. She placed the 
ashtray on the bed beside him where he could use it for his cigar ashes. She 
rose, stretched her arms above her head and yawned. "It must be past 
midnight," she said. "You ever heard of that stuff they call sleep?" 

"Yeah. I heard of it." He took the cigar from his mouth and studied the 
length of ash. 

"Shall we get some of that stuff?" 

"As soon as I finish this cigar and as soon as you suck my cock again." 

"Again? A third time?" He noticed that her face whitened at the thought of 
doing it a third time. He wondered why she hated doing it so much. Most 
whores were used to it. 

"I never get tired of it," he said. 

"You can't make it a third time!" 

"Want to bet?" He laughed. "No. We can't bet that way, can we, because you 
wouldn't try as hard!" 

"You can't make it a third time," she persisted. 

"I'll bet I can." He slid a hand beneath his pillow and withdrew his wallet. 
He pulled five one-hundred-dollar bills from it and gave them to her. He 
returned his wallet to its place beneath the pillow, directly beneath his 
head. 

She was holding the five one-hundred-dollar bills with both hands, staring 
at them unbelievingly. 

He said, "You make me come again and the five hundred is yours. A bonus." 

"Hey," she said softly. "This is real money. You must be rich." 

He smiled. The money meant nothing to him. He hadn't done any work since he 
got the TV set and with it he could get all the money he wanted, whenever he 
wanted it. He watched as Connie placed the money in her purse and then 
crouched above him, beginning to suck on his cock again. This third time, so 
soon after the other two times, would be the hardest of all. She had to suck 
for five minutes before his prick even started to get hard. He felt the come 
deep in his body, gathering for the third explosion into her mouth, but he 
could feel it gathering slowly and almost reluctantly. She grasped his prick 
beneath her mouth and began to squeeze and jerk but he told her to stop 
cheating. She obediently removed her hand and kept on working with only her 
mouth. He watched the beads of sweat gather on her naked body and listened 
to the sound of her harsh breathing. She was exhausting herself to earn that 
money and, as he closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensation of her lips 
and mouth on his cock, he realized that, with a woman like Connie, money was 
as good as a whip. 

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

Clark sat in the chair by the door and watched Sid and the woman named Helen 
Kessler. Sid was seemingly emotionless as he scribbled in his notebook, 
although Mrs. Kessler paused often as she burst into tears. " ... I know she 
was raped," Mrs. Kessler was saying. "I know it. Debbie isn't the kind of 
girl to - " 

Clark leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees and 
entwined his fingers. He felt more and more uncomfortable and was beginning 
to feel foolish about his request to accompany Sid during the investigation 
of his wife's attack. Sid had called him on the phone and had told him to 
meet him here at this address, but had not explained how this case was 
related to his wife's. 

His mind drifted to memories of Alma - sweet memories of how she had been 
when she was alive; painful memories of the void following her death. His 
head began to ache and he rubbed his forehead. He listened to only fragments 
of the conversation between Sid and Mrs. Kessler. 

"When did you first suspect your daughter had been attacked?" 

"After she returned from the courts - " 

"Courts?" 

"The tennis courts in the recreation area. You can see them from here. 
Debbie has gone there often to play tennis with her friends. We never 
dreamed - " Sobbing. "We never dreamed she'd be in any danger there. As soon 
as she returned today, I thought something was wrong. She looked so ... 
pale. And she looked as if something horrible had happened. I asked her if 
anything was wrong and she said no. I told her to go upstairs and wash. 
Supper was almost ready. She started to go upstairs and then I noticed - " 
Sobbing. "I noticed the blood on her skirt and legs. It wasn't much, but as 
soon as I saw it, I knew something was wrong. I went up to the bathroom with 
Debbie. I made her undress and - " The sobbing began again - this time 
edging toward hysteria. 

Clark wondered where Mr. Kessler was. He waited for Mrs. Kessler to continue 
and while he waited he could imagine the mother and the daughter in the 
bathroom - the mother making an examination of her daughter - an examination 
the details of which she obviously did not want to put into words. As the 
sobbing subsided, she looked pleadingly at Sid above the edge of her 
handkerchief. 

Sid said, "Did you call a doctor to confirm your suspicions?" 

Mrs. Kessler nodded. "I called our family doctor and pleaded with him to 
come right away. He told me that Debbie had been attacked." 

"Was there any evidence that Debbie had been hurt in any way? I mean - any 
evidence that she had been beaten?" 

"No. I didn't notice anything like that. Dr. Rigby didn't mention anything 
other than the - " Mrs. Kessler rose suddenly and left the room. When she 
returned a few minutes later she seemed more composed. 

Sid said, "Where is your daughter now?" 

"Upstairs. She's sleeping. Dr. Rigby gave her some sleeping pills." 

"I'll have to talk to her later. Before I talk to her ... can you tell me 
her version of what happened?" 

Mrs. Kessler's eyes were red and swollen as she stared at Sid. "Debbie won't 
admit that anything happened. I told her she had to tell us what the man 
looked like. She refuses to admit anything happened." 

"You said she was playing tennis in a recreation area near here?" 

Mrs. Kessler went to the window. Sid followed. "See?" Mrs. Kessler pleaded. 
"You can see the tennis courts from here. We never dreamed anything would 
happen so close to home. But it must have happened while she was at the 
tennis courts. Now and then - after she left - I looked out the window. I 
could see them playing tennis ... " 

"Come on, Clark. We'll be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Kessler." 

* * * 

Clark had to hurry to keep pace with Sid as he crossed the field to the 
recreation area. As soon as they reached the tennis courts, Clark noticed 
the broken window. Inside the building, near the broken window, there were 
specks of blood on the asphalt floor. For a while, Clark followed Sid as he 
roamed the area. Then, gradually, he wandered away, searching the area 
independently. He saw the cigar butt and knelt beside it. "Sid!" 

In a few moments, Sid was kneeling beside him, studying the cigar. 

"Do you think it might be a cigar the man was smoking?" 

"It might be a cigar anybody was smoking. Maybe one of the girls smoked it." 

Clark glanced at Sid's face. The abrupt sarcasm had caught him off guard. 
"Teen-age girls don't smoke cigars." 

"Today teen-age girls will do any goddamn thing. Including giving a piece to 
somebody and then lying about it so their mothers think they were raped." 

"Teen-age girls don't smoke cigars," Clark repeated. 

"It could have been smoked by a man in the neighborhood. A cigar butt isn't 
a clue." 

"And it might have been smoked by the man who raped that girl." 

"We don't even know she was raped. That hasn't been proven yet." 

Clark ignored Sid's comment. He rose and wandered through the parking area. 
He knelt now and then to study the few scraps of paper. One of the scraps 
was a cigar band. He started to mention it to Sid and then decided not to. 
Sid was right. A cigar butt wasn't much of a clue. The cigar could have been 
smoked by anyone. And it hadn't yet been proven the girl had been raped. 

Sid was leaning against the cinder block building, thoughtfully smoking a 
cigarette. He said, "Something is wrong." 

"You're damned right something is wrong. That girl was raped here." 

"I'm starting to believe it. There are too many things pointing that way. 
And too many wrong things. Too many queer things ... The smashed window. Why 
should anyone break a window like that? The blood inside the rest room. The 
fact that it happened in an area like this ... Look at this place." Sid 
swung a hand in a circle. "This whole area is so goddamned open. This isn't 
the kind of place a teen-age girl usually welcomes a lover. Right where she 
can be seen from her own house?" He shook his head. "Everything is wrong 
both ways. It also isn't the kind of place a rapist usually chooses." 

"What are you going to do now?" 

He sighed, dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath his foot. "I'll have to 
talk to the girl as soon as possible. I guess we'll go the whole route ... a 
complete investigation. I'll probably have to ask for another detective to 
help me. So ... you'll have to disappear for a while." 

Clark looked into the other man's eyes. It seemed that Sid was almost bored 
and Clark realized this was Sid's daily work - at times perhaps as boring as 
the most routine office job. "You'll give me a call if anything new turns 
up?" 

"I'll be sure to give you all the juicy details." 

Clark remembered seeing a bar not far from the Kessler house. He decided 
he'd go there for a drink and had walked a few yards away when he heard Sid 
say softly, "Clark? Been wondering why I asked you to come here today?" 

Clark turned to face the policeman, retracing some of his steps until they 
were closer. "I wondered about it. Then I decided you must think there's 
some connection ... the same man ... " 

"Notice a similarity in the two cases?" 

"No." 

"Your wife didn't remember what the man looked like. Debbie Kessler wouldn't 
admit anything had happened." 

The association came slowly to Clark. He said, "You're saying that this 
girl's not admitting anything happened might be the same as not remembering 
that anything happened?" 

Sid nodded. "During the short time we had to question your wife, she 
couldn't actually remember being attacked. She only knew she'd been attacked 
because of her physical condition." 

Clark moved still closer to the detective. His legs felt wooden and finally 
he was so close he could see the small black pupils of the man's eyes. "A 
hypnotist," he murmured. 

"It has to be a hypnotist. A rapist-hypnotist. Your wife didn't remember 
anything. Debbie Kessler didn't remember anything. One of the first things I 
asked Mrs. Kessler on the phone was ... could her daughter give a 
description of the man? She said her daughter couldn't remember what the man 
looked like. You see, on the phone, she wouldn't say her daughter wouldn't 
admit she'd been raped. So I phoned you. It's more than these two cases, 
Clark. After I started digging into your wife's case, I started going over 
every rape case in the five closest states. Every case during the past six 
months. Looking for a pattern. Guess what? I found a pattern. There were 
dozens of cases that have no relation at all to the others. In those cases 
the men were found and arrested or else the circumstances were so entirely 
different they - " 

"How many fit the pattern?" Clark interrupted. 

"Four in Pennsylvania. Two in Maryland. One in New Jersey. Seven other cases 
where the victim doesn't remember what the man looked like. One case in 
Pennsylvania is typical. The woman was found in an alley. Her clothes were 
torn, her panties had been removed, and she'd been beaten. She was rushed to 
a hospital and an examiner determined she'd been raped. But when she was 
questioned, she couldn't remember anything. The police who handled the cases 
weren't excited about it. The cases were in different cities and different 
policemen investigated each case. The policemen in each city assumed the 
woman couldn't remember the man because she was suffering from shock ... 
because of temporary amnesia ... because of a wish to avoid publicity and a 
police investigation by claiming nothing had happened ... Oh, the simplest 
explanation ... Want to guess?" 

"Tell me." 

"A woman is walking down a dark street. Someone slips up behind her - unseen 
- knocks her unconscious. Drags her into some bushes or an alley and rapes 
her. The woman regains consciousness and has been raped but doesn't remember 
a single detail. In three of the cases I mentioned, it was assumed the women 
were knocked unconscious before they saw their attacker. That's happened now 
and then, of course. But now there are too many in the pattern. Nine cases 
where the women don't remember ... nine counting your wife and Debbie 
Kessler." 

 CHAPTER NINETEEN 

The girl's hair was chestnut brown and had been done in a style that curled 
the brown masses in toward her neck, the hair at such a length it barely 
brushed her shoulders when she turned her head. Her eyes were large and dark 
brown - they reminded him of a doe's eyes for some reason he couldn't quite 
understand - unless it was because they were large and seemingly innocent. 
Innocent? It'd be interesting to discover if she was a virgin. There were no 
rings on her fingers. 

Her eyebrows were pale compared to the shade of the hair on her head - thin 
arches above the doe eyes. Her lips were pale, as if she used only a very 
light lipstick or none at all. She wore a checked brown and white skirt, 
checked brown and white jacket, with a white blouse beneath the jacket. She 
had carried a white purse and white gloves when he met her. He'd disposed of 
the purse and gloves after going through the purse and removing the money. 
Out of curiosity, he'd glanced at the identification card in her purse. Her 
name was Katherine Elsinger and she was twenty-four years old. 

She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Slender and 
graceful. She had that fine-featured aristocratic kind of face he'd never 
seen in a bar and rarely seen anywhere except newspaper photographs on the 
society pages. Women such as Katherine Elsinger would never be found in a 
bar although they might be found occasionally in a nightclub. Even in a 
nightclub, they would always be escorted. Women such as Katherine Elsinger 
would never go to a nightclub to be picked up. There would always be plenty 
of men waiting to take them anywhere they wanted to go. And women such as 
Katherine Elsinger would never look twice at a man such as himself ... 

He had tied her wrists together and tied her ankles together, tied a 
handkerchief across her mouth, propped her up on the V of bunks at the bow 
of the boat, and snapped her out of the trance. She had made muffled sounds 
beneath the handkerchief for a while and had struggled to break free of the 
cord around her wrists and ankles, but eventually she had ceased all 
struggling, realizing it was hopeless. 

He poured the beer into the glass, sipped it. "Want a drink, Katherine?" 

There was no response. He had half-expected her to nod her head. She 
continued to stare at him with those large brown eyes, her forehead 
occasionally wrinkled as she frowned at him. It was interesting to note 
there was no hate in her eyes - only fear and wonder. Fear at expectations 
of what he might do to her. Wonder at how she had arrived here. 

"I couldn't give you a drink even if you did want one," he said. "I didn't 
think about that. To give you a drink I'd have to take off that gag and I 
don't want you screaming for help right now. It might be safe but I'd rather 
wait another hour. Then we'll be damned sure there's no boats wandering 
around this part of the bay and then we can have our party." He gulped the 
beer and told himself that when he finished this bottle, he wouldn't drink 
any more. The beer would deaden his senses if he drank too much. He didn't 
want to be half-drunk when he fucked her. He wanted to enjoy all of it as 
much as possible. 

"Know where we are?" he asked. "We're anchored off a hunk of marshland in 
the bay. Nobody within miles. A boat goes by now and then but it goes by way 
out there. Too far away to hear anything we say or do." He chuckled and 
sipped the beer. 

She began to struggle again, twisting on the bunk, struggling to break free 
of both the wrist and ankle bindings. Her nyloned knees parted a few inches 
during the struggle and he studied the opening between her knees although 
the lighting was so poor he could see none of her thighs. Noticing he was 
staring, she brought her knees together and ceased struggling. 

He laughed. "Afraid I might see your pussy?" He placed the beer on the 
narrow table against the bulkhead. He stood before her and smiled down at 
her. "Listen, honey, don't worry about me seeing your pussy. Because there's 
no way you can stop me from seeing it." He lowered a hand and caught the hem 
of her skirt with the tip of his forefinger, pulling it slowly upward. She 
made gurgling sounds beneath the handkerchief and her eyes rolled wildly. He 
raised the checked brown and white skirt until he could see the V of red 
panties. "Red!" he exclaimed mockingly. "I'll bet you feel daring when you 
wear that!" He returned to his seat and sipped the beer again. When he saw 
she was watching him, he deliberately stared at her uncovered legs and V of 
her loins until her eyes closed as if she could not bear to watch him stare 
at her. 

He lit a cigar. "I'll bet you're wondering what's going on. Want me to tell 
you? Maybe you'll appreciate it more if you understand. You see, girls are 
my hobby." He shrugged his shoulders. "Some guys save stamps, some guys play 
golf. A lotta hobbies. My hobby is girls. I like to look at 'em, I like to 
feel 'em, I like to fuck 'em. Can you think of a better hobby for a guy to 
have? I'll tell you ... it's a lot more fun than saving stamps or playing 
golf." He puffed on the cigar. "You know all about hypnosis, don't you? Sure 
you do. You're a smart girl. Well, believe it or not, I knew a guy who 
invented a machine that hypnotizes. Isn't that the greatest thing you ever 
heard? His machine did what the guy on the stage does with the watch 
swinging at the end of a chain ... only the machine does it faster and 
better. That's how you got here. Remember you were walking down the street 
and I got out of my car and showed you the TV? I hypnotized you and told you 
to meet me at that intersection of Naaman's Road and Marsh Road. You were 
there, right at ten o'clock, like I told you only you didn't know what you 
were doing because you were hypnotized. So I put you on this - " 

He stopped abruptly as he heard the boat nearby. Alarm bells rang in his 
mind when he realized it could be one of the coast guard boats he'd heard 
about - one of the coast guard boats that periodically inspected boats to 
make sure they had the proper life preservers and fire extinguishers. What 
the hell could he do if a bunch of those coast guard guys started climbing 
all over his boat? The TV wouldn't work on a bunch of guys like that - not 
unless he somehow got them all looking at the TV at the same time. It would 
be tricky as hell and almost impossible to get them all looking at the TV at 
the same time if there were more than two of them at once. And, if they 
found the girl in the cabin, all tied up like that. . 

He hurried out of the cabin, up onto the deck. He went to the railing and 
stared into the night until he saw the running lights of the other boat. It 
was a big one. It could be a coast guard ship ... Too late to turn off the 
cabin lights? His heart thudded. Hell yes. Way too late now. He should have 
a gun. He should have bought a gun a long time ago. Carting that TV all over 
hell, taking those women, the only smart thing to do was have a gun on you 
all the time. Just in case you hit a spot where you couldn't use the TV. 
Then you could use the gun ... 

The other boat came closer. The engine churned lower and lower. He heard 
voices on the boat and recognized some of them as women's voices. The boat 
turned - as if seeing his boat - as if wanting a secluded and deserted place 
to anchor - the boat turned and sped away. He watched until the running 
lights disappeared on the dark horizon, then he returned to the cabin. He 
noted with disgust his own trembling. Things were beginning to shake him, 
shake him bad. The girl had gotten to her feet, hobbled a short distance 
from where she'd been sitting. Stupid as hell, because how could she get 
anywhere all tied up like that? He placed the palm of a hand against the 
soft mound of her cunt and shoved until she fell backward on the bunk, in a 
sitting position again but this time more awkwardly, with her hips too far 
forward on the bunk. 

He finished the beer and found he was still trembling. He opened another 
bottle of beer and gulped it. Maybe it'd steady his nerves. He said, "How do 
you like my boat? First time I ever had a boat. Shopped around and found 
what I wanted and bought it. One thousand bucks. What do you think about 
that? Quite a hobby huh? But, I heard, some guys pay a thousand bucks for a 
stamp. Now ... you're going to be a helluva lot more fun than a teeny-weeny 
flat stamp." He shrugged his shoulders in the conversation with himself, 
then said, "And I'll sell this boat when I'm through with it. I might not 
get the grand back but I'll bet I get nine hundred. So, no matter how you 
figure it, this party with you will only cost me about a hundred. For a 
hundred, you can hardly buy a girl for all night who doesn't look like a 
pig. Whores cost more and more all the time." He chuckled. "Speaking of 
whores ... you know, it was a whore who gave me the idea for this boat." 

The girl was moaning. It might be because of the awkward position she was 
now in. He went to her and lifted her to a normal sitting position on the 
bunk. He said, "Hot? Let's take off your jacket." With her wrists tied, it 
was impossible to slip the jacket off her. He took the knife from his pocket 
and cut the jacket apart, throwing the pieces to one side. He cut her blouse 
and threw the pieces on the floor. She was wearing a black bra. He cut the 
straps and pulled it from her breasts. The bra was padded and her breasts 
were disappointingly small. He put the knife on the floor and knelt before 
her, cupping her breasts with his hands in such a way his fingers touched 
her flesh but there was space between her breasts and his palms. "Not very 
big," he said with mock sadness and shook his head. "You hardly got two 
handfuls there. But ... if everything else is that small ... " He laughed 
and returned to his bottle of beer, finishing it. 

"You know why I'm doin' this?" he asked, turning and glaring at her 
half-naked body. "Because all the others were zombies! That's right. Like 
zombies! The TV got them but it made them like zombies. Where's the fun in 
that? A guy likes a little life, spark, zip." He grinned at her. "You'll 
show a little life, spark, zip, won't you? You can bet your ass you will!" 

He knelt before her again and unzippered her skirt, pulling it down the 
length of her legs and throwing it aside. He cut the red panties away and 
studied the chestnut-brown thatch of pubic hair, probing into her cunt, 
tickling her clit with a finger, and laughing at the way she shuddered. 

She was a slender girl - slender arms and legs with a small waist. So light 
he could have lifted her and held her with one arm. So slender and small 
there wasn't one chance in a million she'd be able to get away from him even 
if he untied her. He undressed and used the knife to cut the cords around 
her wrists and ankles. He left the handkerchief around her mouth and decided 
he'd remove it later if she didn't snatch it off. 

"Why don't you make a run for it?" he suggested. "There's the door. Get 
through that door, up on the deck, jump over and swim like hell, and you'll 
be free!" 

He had expected she'd be too paralyzed by fear to move but with a surprising 
agility she darted toward the door. Before she reached the door, he caught 
one of her wrists and yanked so hard he pulled her tumbling backwards, onto 
the floor. He crawled above her and fought to get between her long slender 
legs. She tore the handkerchief from her mouth, screamed deafeningly while 
she clawed at his face. He slapped her so hard her arms were suddenly limp, 
her head lolling on the floor. 

Then he came down against the length of her body, shoving his hard prick 
into the softness of her cunt. She groaned and, as soon as she regained 
consciousness, her sharp fingernails flew at his face. He felt a stinging 
wetness on his cheek as her fingernails struck and he hit her jaw with his 
right fist - holding back on the punch because he didn't want to break her 
jaw or snap her neck. Despite holding back on the punch, the blow split her 
lower lip and he thought he heard the crunch of some teeth. 

Her eyes closed and she was still again. He slid his member up and down the 
length of her womanhood a few times and then stopped in something akin to 
disgust. With her unconscious, she wasn't any better than the zombies. Most 
of the fun had been the way she ran around and the way she screamed. He'd 
have to think of some ways to make her scream ... 

He rose and walked around the cabin until he found his pack of cigars. He 
lit one and then sipped from the half-empty can of beer. His cheek felt as 
if blood was dribbling, reaching the edge of his jaw, and he glanced in the 
small round cabin mirror. She'd scratched his cheek bad and there were 
streaks of blood that had dribbled clear down to his jaw. He wiped at the 
blood and remembered that girl on the playground in Harris-burg. He'd been 
just a kid then ... how old? ... eight or nine? The girl had laughed at his 
face and said he had a nose and a face just like a clown. He'd shoved her to 
make her quiet but instead of making her quiet, it only made her scream and 
then the girl had come at him, screaming, scratching his face. Some boys in 
the playground thought he'd been hurting the girl although he hadn't done 
anything more than just give her a push - thought he was hurting her because 
of the way she screamed so much. So the boys had come at him - five of them, 
beaten him, and knowing he could never win against so many, he'd run home. 
At home - empty because his mother had gone away after that fight with his 
father, and his father was at work now - he'd stood before the mirror and 
studied the scratches on his face exactly as he was doing now. Then he had 
gone to the window and stood there, looking down at the playground. The 
silence of the apartment was a heavy weight and it was strange there were no 
sounds in the other apartments; it was as if the world had died - all except 
him and the kids down on the playground and they were only tiny dots from 
the apartment window. 

He remembered the girl's laughter and the gentle shove he'd given her. He 
hadn't shoved her hard at all - just a little shove to make her stop 
laughing. She'd started screaming ... 

There were no tears on his cheeks, but he felt as if there were tears 
somewhere inside him, hot tears like drops of acid burning and killing his 
soul. He'd only wanted to play with the boys down there on the playground - 
play a game of baseball or else just be with them. He hadn't had any 
intention of even talking to any of the girls on the playground or having 
anything to do with them unless it was just to "show off" in front of some 
and show them how strong he was by lifting something heavy or breaking 
something ... 

He went back to the playground the next day, but the same girl and boys were 
there. The girl told the boys to "make him leave" and they did make him 
leave. He never played in that playground during all the years he and his 
father lived so near it. The nearest other playground was too far away to 
walk to and it seemed he never had the money for bus fares to get there, 
seemed he never had many friends when he was a kid. And, gradually, as he 
grew older, he saw again and again, the truth of his father's statement: 
Women are rotten. The girl in the playground had been a perfect example - 
laughing at his face and then screaming for no reason at all. 

"Ohhhhhh." 

The girl moaning broke the chain of memories. He turned away from the mirror 
and went to the girl. Her eyes were fluttering. He sat on her stomach but 
only allowing part of his weight to settle on her, supporting himself mainly 
by his knees. She opened her mouth to scream but he said, "You make a noise 
right now and I'll break your teeth. You want to scream? Okay. But I'll tell 
you when to scream. I'll give you plenty of chances." 

The girl struggled for control, seemed to obtain it, and did not scream. 

"See what you did to my face?" he asked her, pointing at the scratches. 
"How'd you like a few marks like that?" He took the knife and pressed the 
tip against one of her breasts. "Okay," he told her, "you can scream now!" 
and he drew a bloody line on the curve of her breast as she screamed, her 
eyes bulging and her body steel-taut beneath him. His cock hardened still 
more as she screamed and pearly drops fell to her stomach. 

She fainted. 

He rose and got the half-empty can of beer, held it above her and poured the 
liquid onto her face. When she regained consciousness, he knelt above her 
again, and held the knife near her other breast. "Okay. Scream!" 

As he pressed the metal blade against the softness of her breast and drew 
redness, she screamed and fainted again. He rose and threw the knife aside. 
It was fun to use the knife and fun to listen to her scream, but the way she 
fainted so often was irritating. He hadn't cut her deeply, had only 
scratched the surface of her flesh to imitate a fingernail scratch. The 
scratches would heal as easily as a fingernail scratch, but she had seen the 
bloody marks on her breasts and must have thought he'd permanently 
disfigured her. 

If only there was some way to make her scream without making her faint ... 

"Ooooohhh." 

As her eyes fluttered open, he went to her and picked her up easily. He 
hefted her weight and judged she was so light in comparison to his strength 
that he could easily toss her across the cabin if he wanted. He held her 
before him and maneuvered until he managed to press the throbbing knob of 
his erect cock between her moist cunt lips. She was fully awake now and 
screaming ... Holding her before him, he half-ran the short distance to the 
cabin bulkhead and slammed her against the bulkhead - flattening himself 
against her and the slamming-flattening action caused his cock to slide 
full-length within her. She moaned with the pain and he backed away from the 
wall to his original position, withdrawing his cock until only the tip 
remained within her, and then repeating the whole procedure of running while 
holding her before him, slamming her against the wall. He began to laugh. 
Great! Fucking a woman by slamming her against a wall! 

She continued to scream and finally fainted but there had been a 
satisfyingly long interval during which she had remained conscious and he 
realized it was only the knife that made her faint so rapidly - the knife 
and the fear of being cut. 

Later - he made her assume various positions while he fucked her, once he 
made her mount his erect prick, and once he made her suck it. He filled 
himself with her screamings until he felt numb - much like a man having 
finished a feast might feel - contentedly numb. He had shot his come into 
her three times but he had fucked her in more than a dozen positions. 

And then, as dawn approached, he knew the end was near. He had enjoyed her 
as much as possible, there was nothing else to do to her or with her and he 
had to be rid of her before the dawn and, probably, fishermen who would see 
his boat. 

So he slid his half-hard cock into her cunt and began to slowly slide it 
back and forth. He held the knife near her throat and whispered, "A new 
game." He pressed the sharp edge of the knife against her throat but not 
hard enough to draw blood. "The game is called, 'I come, you go.' Get it? I 
fuck you until I come. As I come, I cut your throat and you go!" He 
continued to fuck her and was suddenly aware that she was too still, her 
eyes too blank. He felt the area of her heart, and felt her wrists for a 
pulse. Nothing. 

She had died and he would never know the exact time she had died. He 
wondered if he had accidentally broken her neck or if she had died of a 
heart attack ? 

He rose and looked down at the naked female body and felt a strange mixture 
of pride and joy. He had used her thoroughly and felt pride in the way he'd 
not wasted any of the time with her. 

 CHAPTER TWENTY 

"Shhhh." She turned halfway up the stairs with a finger across her lips. She 
held her shoes in her other hand and he - at her instructions - had removed 
his shoes, carrying them. They had crept up the wooden stairs outside the 
rear of the house with no sound at all and yet she had paused to warn him 
about silence as if he had made some sound. 

He had met her at the bar not far from Debbie Kessler's house. Although it 
was obvious she wasn't a prostitute, she had been at the bar in search of a 
man. He'd decided to end her search. 

"Never again," she'd said at the bar. "I'll never marry again if I live to 
be a hundred!" 

"If you lived to be a hundred, nobody'd want you," a man at the bar 
remarked. 

The bar closed at midnight and, after Clark had talked with her most of the 
evening, he offered, "Can I give you a ride home?" 

"I only live a stagger from here." 

"A stagger?" 

"You know how people say a hop, skip, and a jump from here? When I've been 
drinking, I call it a stagger from here. That's why I come to this dump. 
It's only a stagger from my apartment. I wouldn't come here for any other 
reason, believe me. I don't like to drive when I drink. It isn't safe to 
drive when you drink. So ... I come here." 

"Can I stagger you home?" he'd asked, grinning at her. 

"You can stagger me home, honey. You can stagger me any time you want!" She 
was gazing deep into his eyes, smiling. He knew it would be good with her 
because she was hungry for a man. Most of the conversation during the 
evening had revolved around her ex-husband and how she occasionally dated 
men but kept telling them she didn't want to get serious again. She was fed 
up with being a housewife. But - obviously - she wasn't fed up with men and 
still needed them. 

"I'd like to stagger you," he told her in a lower voice. They were at the 
end of the bar with no one on their right. With a glance down the length of 
the bar to their left, he saw no one was looking in their direction and he 
dipped a hand to her knees, resting the palm on her knees and making no 
attempt to slide the hand beneath her dress, but pressing the tips of his 
fingers against the soft inner parts of her thighs. 

"Ummmm." She closed her eyes briefly, the smile wider. "I can hardly wait 
for you to stagger me, honey." 

"I'll stagger you like you've never been staggered before." 

"Ummmm." She sipped her glass of beer. "I'll bet you will. It's been a long 
time since I've been staggered." 

The bartender was turning off some of the lights. Customers were leaving. He 
slid from the bar stool and nodded toward the door. 

"You go first," she said in a low voice. "Turn left when you leave here. 
Wait about two blocks down the street. Some of the people here know me and 
they might get the wrong idea if they see us leaving together." 

"Let me tap a kidney first," he said. 

"Tap a kidney?" 

"That's a medical way of saying I have to take a leak." 

She laughed - so hard that others in the bar turned and looked at them for a 
moment. When he left the men's room, she was still at the bar and a man was 
sitting beside her, talking to her earnestly. As he walked by her, when her 
head was turned so the man beside her could not see her face, she winked at 
him. 

Two blocks down the street, he waited beside a huge elm tree and itched to 
smoke a cigarette but didn't light one because the glow would have made him 
more conspicuous. He heard the tap of her high heels on the sidewalk when 
she was still a block away and he thought of Alma - how Alma had walked down 
a sidewalk - every bit a lady but still with such a lush swing of lovely 
nyloned legs she magnetized male eyes. 

Alma. He wondered at the change in himself. He had never wanted another 
woman while Alma was alive. He had only taken other women when they almost 
threw themselves at him. Now that Alma was gone, he seemed to be content to 
take any tramp that came along. It was as if his soul had been separated 
from his body. His body needed a woman occasionally. It didn't matter who 
she was. It was a physical need such as eating and sleeping. 

Her apartment was a second floor one with outside stairs. There were lights 
in windows of the first floor and it was at the bottom of the stairs she 
asked him to take off his shoes and carry them. At the top of the stairs, 
she silently opened the door and stepped inside, holding the door until he 
was inside. As soon as she closed the door, she was against him, pulling his 
head down to hers. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her 
against him. 

He raised her dress with one hand and fondled her cunt with the other. Her 
mouth grew warmer and wetter beneath his mouth and he felt both her hands 
fumble at his zipper. She was trembling beneath the touch of his hand and, 
in her excitement, her own hands tugged rhythmically at his cock - tugging 
and squeezing so hard he had to warn her, "Wait - " grasping her wrists and 
holding her hands motionless. 

She released her grip and led him into the bedroom. A grayness of a bedroom 
and he watched her undress, undressing himself. Naked, she came to him and 
seized his hard cock with both hands again, kissing him, whispering, "Fuck 
me! Ohhh ... fuck me! I'm dying for it!" 

"Let's turn on a light," he said while leaning slightly backward and looking 
down at the grayness of her naked breasts and loins. He wanted to see her. 

"We can't turn on the lights," she said. "I have a friend ... next house ... 
if she sees lights, she'll want to come over and talk all night with me. 
She's a nut." 

"Oh." 

"Wait a minute. Maybe we can compromise." She went to the bedroom windows 
and turned the Venetian blinds so the moonlight came into the room, 
illuminating their naked bodies. He wondered if the bit about the neighbor 
watching for evidence of her return was the truth or only an excuse to keep 
her body hidden. Was she ashamed of her body? Her breasts were large but 
sagging like hell. She had too much of a belly - a round belly that must 
have been held in place by a girdle and, by the glow of the moonlight, he 
could see her thighs were flabby. "Good enough?" she asked. 

"Good enough." 

She came to where he was standing, bent and peered down at his manhood. 
"God!" she exclaimed. "What a hunk of meat! It looks big enough to tear me 
apart! You won't hurt me, will you?" She giggled. 

"I promise." 

She hurried onto the bed and he followed. Upon sinking his rod into her, he 
found that her concern about his hurting her had been a pure fantasy or 
wishful thinking on her part. Her vagina was so large in diameter that he 
could feel the slippery soft flesh of it, but there was no tightness. Her 
hand had felt better! 

He fucked her as fast as possible, trying to make up for the lack of 
pressure by an increased speed, but although she trembled beneath him like a 
bowlful of jelly in her sexual ecstasy and climax, he seemed to be further 
and further from completion. In a kind of desperation, he closed his eyes 
and pretended the woman beneath him was Elaine, and summoned all the 
memories he could of her: the way her soft red lips had curved in teasing 
half-smiles, the image of her long lovely legs, her hot dark eyes, the sound 
of her voice, the whispery feeling of her hair, the flash of her nyloned 
legs, the smell of her perfume ... and when the pretense reached a height, 
his cock pulsed gobs of sperm into the woman beneath him. 

He rolled away from her, lay beside her but not touching her. She rolled on 
her side, facing him. "You fuck good," she said faintly. 

"Not bad yourself." 

"Want an encore?" 

"Okay." 

"Let me rest a minute, then we'll have a fucking encore." 

He lay there for several minutes, his mind empty. She hadn't been as 
satisfying as he'd hoped. If it hadn't been for the way he'd pretended she 
was Elaine, he might not have reached a climax at all. 

She was snoring. 

Remembering Alma, Sid Weinman, Debbie Kessler, he decided to call Sid and 
find out if there'd been any new developments in the case. He also decided 
he wouldn't stick around to fuck his pick-up a second time. He was so tired 
he wanted a good night's sleep more than a "fucking encore." 

In the glow of the moonlight that filtered through the slats in the Venetian 
blinds, he dressed again and went into the living room. He turned on a light 
and looked everywhere but there seemed to be no phone in the room. Realizing 
that some people occasionally had their phones installed in the kitchen of 
their apartments or homes, he went into the kitchen and turned on the light. 
There was a wall phone there and he moved a chair beside it, searching 
through his wallet for the slip of paper on which he'd written Sid's home 
phone number. He lit a cigarette and dialed. "Anything new on the Debbie 
Kessler case?" he asked abruptly when a muffled voice answered. 

"Clark? Why in hell are you calling me this time in the morning?" 

"Sorry. I've been up all night." To make it sound better, he added, 
"Thinking about the case. Couldn't get it off my mind." 

"Call me tomorrow at the station, will you? Shit. If this is the way you're 
going to be ... calling me in the middle of the night, you can take your 
goddamned money and stick it up your ass." 

"Sorry, Sid. I didn't stop to think about the time. I've had a lot of 
trouble sleeping since Alma died. Mornings ... nights, they all sort of 
blend together anymore. I'll call you tomorrow at the station. Good night." 

"Wait. I might as well tell you now and get it over with. Things are 
starting to shape up. I talked with Debbie Kessler. I didn't like the way 
she sounded. She said nothing happened at the tennis courts but - because I 
didn't like the way she sounded - I had her taken to the state hospital and 
examined by the head psychiatrist there. Had to get her parents' permission 
for that and it took a lot of talking but it was worth it. The headshrinker 
at the hospital used sodium pentothal." 

"That's the ... truth serum?" 

"Right. I don't know how much you know about sodium pentothal but there 
isn't supposed to be any way to beat it. That is ... if you've killed 
someone and you've been lying about it ... or if you've been lying about 
anything at all ... it will make you a blabbermouth in nothing flat. Debbie 
Kessler, under sodium pentothal, still wouldn't admit she'd been raped ... 
and ... wouldn't admit she'd willingly had sexual intercourse with someone. 
You see the point? A doctor examined her and said she had sexual 
intercourse. She doesn't remember it. That means she was hypnotized. It 
proves our theory. I asked the headshrinker if he thought he could break 
through the hypnosis. He thinks he can, but he's not sure how long it will 
take. If he can break through, we'll know exactly what happened and we'll be 
able to get a description of the man." 

Clark listened to the emptiness at the other end of the phone while he 
digested the information. Something was wrong ... 

"Are you still there?" Sid asked. 

"I ... I was thinking. I thought I heard you can't hypnotize a person to do 
something against their will. Something they don't want to do." 

"That's a damned good question. I don't know. I'll have to ask the 
headshrinker about it. It's an old idea - that about not being able to 
hypnotize people to do things against their will. But it seems the Russians 
have overcome that with some of their brainwashing. I'd guess maybe it's 
true in some cases. You probably couldn't hypnotize a person into committing 
a murder. But ... this rapist must be doing something much different than 
that. Maybe he just places his victims in a hypnotic spell ... a kind of 
trance where they're powerless to do anything ... Then he rapes them. Then 
he hasn't actually forced them to do anything against their will." 

"Are you checking all hypnotists in the city?" 

"We're checking all the known hypnotists. Guess what? You can count all the 
professional hypnotists in the whole United States on your fingers and toes. 
It isn't a common profession." 

"Then you shouldn't have much trouble finding the -" 

"Wrong. I said known hypnotists. Professional hypnotists. Anyone can pick up 
a book on hypnotism in a library. And ... have you ever seen those ads for 
books on hypnotism?" 

Clark's throat was suddenly dry. He remembered distinctly an advertisement 
he had seen on the back pages of a magazine. A drawing of a man and a woman. 
The man gesturing toward the woman with the woman seemingly in a trance ... 
Digging through his memory he realized he'd seen ads for books on hypnotism 
not just once but dozens of times in the past. He'd never paid any attention 
to the ads ... the same way he had for years driven by pet shops, seeing 
them but not seeing them, until he started raising tropical fish as a hobby. 
Then he'd been surprised at the number of pet shops he'd never noticed. 

He said, "I've seen them." His throat was still dry. He glanced toward the 
kitchen sink and saw the row of glasses there, suddenly wanting a glass of 
water. 

"That's a pretty thought, isn't it?" Sid asked. "The thought that the man 
we're looking for could be anyone ... anyone, anywhere, who sent for one of 
those books on hypnotism or got one through a library ... studied it ... and 
became good at it. Good enough to hypnotize a woman into a trance while he 
rapes her." 

"A pretty thought." His stomach felt queasy. The implications were 
tremendous. No woman would be safe from a man with such a mastery of 
hypnotism. No woman - no matter if she was married or beautiful or rich or 
famous or young or virginal. Sooner or later a man with a mastery of 
hypnosis would be able to look into her eyes ... 

"We're checking all the publishing companies that sell books on hypnotism 
... asking them for their mailing lists. And checking the libraries. I doubt 
we'll come up with anything but we have to check them. Goddamn you, you've 
got me wide awake now, talking a blue streak. My wife is snoring. Hear her?" 

As Clark listened, the sound of snoring that had been an unnoticeable, 
background suddenly became thunderous as Sid held the phone near her mouth 
and said, "When I'm through with you, you bastard, I'll wake her up and get 
a piece." 

"Anything else new?" 

"We questioned kids in the playground near the tennis courts. One of them 
said there was a black car in the parking area near the tennis courts. 
Another kid said there was a white car in the parking area. They couldn't 
tell us what make car. Nothing there. One of the kids said he saw a man with 
a TV at the tennis courts. That doesn't make sense. If the rapist drove a 
black car or a white car to the tennis courts, with the intention of raping 
one of the girls, why should he lug along a TV? He sure as hell wouldn't 
watch TV while he raped a girl." 

"Anything else?" 

"No. Yeah. You woke me up and ruined my sleep ... so now I'll give you 
something that might keep you awake a little bit tonight. A nice sick 
thought to mull over. I thought of it while I was working on this case. Now 
you can have it. I've worked on a lot of rape cases since I've been a cop. 
All kinds, all kinds of people. The man who raped your wife ... Debbie 
Kessler ... all the others who seem to fit in the pattern ... You might call 
him a maniac. Right?" 

"I guess so." 

"I had the thought today ... I'll bet there's a million maniacs walking the 
streets. But they don't have the guts to - Excuse me. Better way of saying 
it is they're not crazy enough to put their ideas into deeds. That's the 
only difference between the million walking around harmless and our baby. 
Good night. You ever call me again this late at night I'll break your 
goddamn nose." Click. 

Clark hung up the phone. He went to the sink and turned on the cold water 
faucet. Standing there, drinking the glass of water, he felt as if there was 
something important in what Sid had said ... something he should have caught 
... some incongruity ... some clue to the rapist's identity ... 

He heard someone come into the apartment. 

"Norma ?" It was a girl's voice calling Norma. He was frozen there by the 
sink with the glass of water in his hand. He remembered Norma's warning 
about turning on the lights - the warning that her girl friend would come 
visit her if she saw lights in the apartment. "Norma?" The girl was walking 
through the apartment. 

There was a long silence and he realized the girl must have gone into the 
bedroom. He finished drinking the glass of water, and wondered if he should 
somehow announce his presence. No. Maybe it would be best if he could slip 
from the apartment unseen by Norma's friend. He placed the glass in the sink 
and walked slowly and quietly from the kitchen. Crossing the living room, he 
saw the girl had turned on the bedroom light and left the door ajar. 

"Norma? Wake up, honey." 

Glancing toward the bedroom, he saw Norma's legs and a girl's face poised 
above Norma's thighs. The girl touched Norma's cunt with a finger, gently. 
"Wake up, honey." 

Leaning to one side, Clark saw the girl was completely naked. A slender 
young girl with narrow hips and budding, unripe breasts. A lovely face 
framed by a mass of dark hair. 

"Huh? Oh. Peggy. Is Clark still here? Did he turn on the lights? I told him 
not to turn on the lights!" 

"Clark?" the girl repeated, puzzled. 

"Nobody, nobody," Norma murmured. "I guess he left." 

"No. I'm still here." He went to the bedroom doorway. The girl named Peggy 
scurried from the bed and snatched at her dress - not attempting to put it 
on but covering her nakedness with it. In the instant before she partially 
concealed herself, Clark saw her young body was smoothly beautiful, the skin 
as softly textured as a pink velvet. By comparison, Norma's body suddenly 
very visible in the light, seemed old and coarse. 

"Clark! I told you not to turn on the lights." 

"I forgot." 

"Why'd you get dressed? I thought we were gonna have a fucking encore." 

He shrugged his shoulders. "You were sleeping. I didn't want to bother you." 

"You call that a bother! Come on!" 

The conversation with Sid had sobered him. He knew he'd been drunk when he 
came here with Norma. Norma was still drunk and now seemed more drunk than 
when she'd left the bar - as if the alcohol in her stomach had taken all 
this time to fully reach her brain. "In front of your friend?" he asked. 

"Oh. Peggy, this is Clark. Clark, this is Peggy, my close friend." 

Very close, he thought. But he only looked at the girl and nodded. The girl 
seemed too startled by his unexpected appearance to either nod or speak. She 
stood there by the bed, clutching her dress before her naked body. Clark 
studied the smooth lengths of her thighs and calves. Her shoulders were 
small, softly rounded. He felt a sudden burst of desire for her, a sudden 
irrational desire to cross the room, snatch the dress from her and fuck her 
- quick, hard. 

"Come on," Norma repeated, spreading her legs. "Fuck me!" 

Clark grinned. "We might embarrass Peggy." 

"It won't embarrass her. She likes to watch people fuck. But that's all she 
likes to do as far as men are concerned. You've watched before, haven't you, 
Peggy?" 

Peggy refused to answer, still paralyzed by Clark's unexpected appearance. 

"Peggy's never had a man," Norma explained. "I've been trying to tell her 
how great it is but she's not convinced yet. Come on. Fuck me and we'll show 
her how great it can be." 

"I'll fuck you tomorrow night if you still want to be fucked then." 

"I want it now," she pouted. 

"Tomorrow night. I'm too goddamn tired to get it up again. See you at Dino's 
tomorrow night?" 

"To hell with Dino's. Buy a case of beer and come right here." 

"Okay." He grinned. "See you tomorrow night." He paused at the doorway. 
"Glad to have met you, Peggy." Out on the darkened street, walking toward 
his car which was still parked near the Kessler house, he knew he had died. 
He, Clark Vaughn, the man married to Alma, the husband who'd hardly ever 
cheated, the husband who'd never wanted to have other women ... had died. 
The old Clark Vaughn had died when Alma died. 

The new Clark Vaughn was unmarried, a widower, single, unattached. The new 
Clark Vaughn was at least temporarily jobless and purposeless. Except to 
find the man who attacked Alma. That was the main desire in the new Clark 
Vaughn. Other than that, the new Clark Vaughn had new tastes and desires. 
Now the new Clark Vaughn wanted a young girl named Peggy with skin as softly 
textured as pink velvet. 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

"Hello, honey." 

"You're right. To hell with Dino's. We'll buy our beer wholesale and save 
money." He nodded toward the case of beer in his arms. He stepped into the 
apartment and saw Peggy sitting at the card table. There were two chairs at 
the table, two glasses with half-melted ice cubes, an ashtray near the chair 
Norma had vacated - an ashtray cluttered with many lipsticked cigarettes as 
if the two women had sat and played cards for a considerable time, waiting 
for him. "Hello, Peggy." 

"Hello." Her eyes were large and dark with extraordinarily long eyelashes. 
She lowered her eyes as if studying her cards, as if embarrassed by his 
presence again. 

"We were playing canasta," Norma said. "Want to join us?" 

"Christ, no. Canasta makes me sick." 

"To each his own. Put the beer in the refrigerator. Open three bottles. 
Bring three clean glasses. And then sit down and keep your mouth shut until 
Peggy and I finish this game." 

When he returned from the kitchen with the glasses and bottles of beer, he 
placed a glass near Norma, a glass near Peggy, and his own glass on an 
unoccupied side of the card table. He poured beer from the three bottles 
into the glasses. Peggy said, "Thank you," when he finished pouring the beer 
into her glass - looking up at him with a brief shyness, returning her 
attention to her cards. 

He sipped his beer and wondered what the night would bring. It might be the 
most interesting night he'd ever had in his life. At least it was promising 
as hell. 

The day itself had been lousy. He'd phoned Sid at the station but Sid had 
said they'd sidetracked him onto a liquor store robbery. "Incidentally," 
he'd said, "I forgot to tell you last night but I guess you realize ... You 
shouldn't mention our theory about the rapist being a hypnotist. Not until I 
tell you it's all right to talk about it." 

"I'm not an idiot." 

"I thought you'd understand that. You understand how the public is. That 
theory might leak out sooner or later but all the detectives working on it 
have been told to keep it quiet. That kind of theory about a hypnotist being 
a rapist could start a mild panic." 

"Or a major panic. Anything new?" 

"Someday I might get tired of hearing you ask that. Nothing new that I know 
of. Tomorrow we should start getting results from the publishing companies 
that sell books on hypnotism - copies of their mailing lists. Derickson, 
who's doing some of the leg work, checked the nearest professional 
hypnotist. Guess what? He's eighty years old. He lives in Philadelphia and 
the kicker is he went blind about ten years ago. That's a hell of a thing, 
isn't it? The next closes professional hypnotist lives in New York City. 
It's a good possibility. Derickson is checking it today ... getting some 
help from the New York police. One other thing came up. A girl has been 
reported missing. Katherine Elsinger. twenty-four. Moderately wealthy 
family. I don't think it's our baby, though, because it doesn't fit the 
pattern." 

Clark sipped his beer and moved so he was standing beside and slightly 
behind Peggy. With the pretext of studying her cards and how she was playing 
the game, he studied the mass of her dark hair. She was wearing a sleeveless 
blouse and a pink skirt ... still sipping his beer, he studied the 
slenderness of her arms and could see down the front of her blouse a few 
inches - enough to see the soft mounds of her small breasts, the crevice 
between them, the edge of a white bra that enclosed them ... She was sitting 
with her knees slightly apart and abruptly seemed aware he was standing 
close to her. She stiffened in the chair and crossed her legs. She held the 
cards with one hand, tugged at her skirt with the other hand to pull her 
skirt down as far as possible. He wondered if Norma was right. Was Peggy a 
virgin? Thinking about entering that body as softly textured as pink velvet 
to discover the truth, his cock hardened achingly. He wondered if he could 
get Peggy - in addition to, or instead of Norma ... 

Clark wandered to the window with his glass of beer and looked out into the 
night. The sun was settling on the horizon - a ball of redness settling on 
the roof of the nearest neighboring house as if that house were the sun's 
home. He studied the rows of surrounding houses and wondered what was 
happening in them ... how many men like himself waiting for the strange 
piece of tail? How many men, like the old Clark Vaughn had been, waiting to 
slip easily into their loving wives? The rapist, whoever he was, must surely 
have a warped mind - warped to some degree, because rape was unnecessary. 
There were a multitude of women such as Norma to be found everywhere - women 
who would willingly and -eagerly give themselves ... and a multitude of 
whores to be had for a price. 

He wandered to the sofa and settled there, waiting. He lit a cigarette and 
finished the beer. He finished the cigarette. He picked up a magazine and 
pretended to read it. Norma and Peggy were playing a game other than the 
game of canasta. A game of "Let's-pretend-we're-not-too-anxious." He 
listened to the patter of conversation between them. 

"Where are you getting all those black threes from, Peggy? Are you making 
them?" 

"Up my sleeve," Peggy said, and since she was wearing a sleeveless blouse, 
both women laughed heartily at the joke. 

Clark thought, Crap! 

"There's another mixed canasta for me," Norma said. "You're going to lose." 

"I have two natural canastas and two naturals are worth more than three 
mixed canastas." 

Crap! He tried to concentrate on the magazine page and thought, Why in hell 
do women have to play hard to get even when they're not hard to get, or 
pretend they're not anxious even when they are anxious? Both of them must be 
anxious as hell to get at the sex of the evening! 

"There," Norma said. "I'm out!" 

"You caught me with ninety points in my hand," Peggy said disgustedly. 

Crap! 

He began reading the magazine article as the girls added up their scores. 
They folded the card table and Norma placed it in the closet. 

"Want another beer, Clark?" 

"Okay." 

The two girls went into the kitchen. He could hear them whispering and he 
wondered if they were whispering about him. Norma returned and filled his 
glass, sitting on the sofa beside him. He finished reading the article and 
placed the magazine aside. "Who won?" he asked. 

"I did. But not by much. Peggy is a good player." 

"I'll bet Peggy's good at a lot of things." She was standing by the 
phonograph, looking through the stack of records. 

"How do you mean that?" Norma asked. She brought her legs up onto the sofa 
with her knees toward Clark, touching his leg. Her skirt was taut across her 
thighs and, with the wide V of her legs in that position, it would be easy 
for him to slide a hand beneath her skirt, between her thighs, reach her 
cunt. He was positive she was sitting that way because she wanted him to do 
exactly that. "I didn't mean anything specific," Clark explained. "I just 
meant that Peggy must be good at a lot of things." 

"Peggy's smart," Norma said. "She works in the IBM room at a finance 
corporation. She programs the IBM machines all by herself." 

"Really?" 

Peggy placed a record on the phonograph and music drifted from the speakers 
located around the room. 

"Peggy likes you," Norma said. "She says you're a gentleman." 

"I am. But how'd she find out?" 

"Because of last night. Because of the way you wouldn't fuck me while she 
was here." 

Clark burst with laughter. He fought for quick control and managed to stop 
before it had gone on too long although he still laughed silently. "I think 
Peggy's a lady," he said. This business of talking about Peggy as if she 
weren't there was awkward but Norma had started it. 

"Why?" 

"Because when I went into the bedroom, she covered her pussy as soon as she 
saw me." He managed to keep from laughing again, but it cost him a choking 
pain in his stomach. He remembered the line from the old Amos and Andy show, 
"He's a gentleman. He tips his hat as he passes the potatoes." 

"Peggy is a lady," Norma confirmed. "And shy ... terribly shy. She's only 
had one date with a boy. That was when she was very young and the boy tried 
to fuck her. It scared her so much she hasn't dated a boy since. I've been 
trying to tell her sex is fun!" 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

"Are you comfortable, Debbie?" 

"Yes." 

"Completely comfortable?" 

"Yes." 

"Will you tell us what happened Tuesday morning at the tennis courts?" 

"I played tennis with Judy." 

"What else happened?" 

"A man was there." 

"Did he walk to the tennis courts or did he come in a car?" 

"In a car." 

"Do you remember what kind of car?" 

"It was a Ford. I knew it was a Ford because it was just like Elmer's." 

"Did the man talk to you and Judy?" 

"Yes." 

"What did he say?" 

"He said he wished he could play tennis as good as Judy and me." 

"Anything else?" 

"He asked if we'd like to have a free TV." 

"Anything else?" 

* * * 

Dr. Frank Nash sat at the girl's side and studied her profile. She was a 
pretty girl with that combination of pixy nose and full lips that reminded 
him so much of his own daughter. The nurse, Nadine Murphy, sat behind the 
girl. The double doors to the room had both been locked on the inside and he 
had folded the shutters across the high window. The mechanical kaleidoscope 
on the table before the girl supplied the only light in the room and it was 
a swirling, hypnotic light. Although he had not received a sodium pentothal 
injection as the girl had, or been subjected to the series of shock 
treatments as the girl had, he still felt partially lulled and almost 
hypnotized whenever he glanced at the kaleidoscope. 

It had taken days to reach this stage with the girl, days of probing into 
her mind, probing deeper and deeper, with tremendous resistance all the way 
but still not quite as hard as digging into the worst of the schizophrenic 
minds. He glanced at the tape recorder. It had stopped when the girl's voice 
stopped and would start again when he or the girl spoke again. The girl had 
been silent a long time and he knew it was because they were passing through 
harder and harder layers. They might not get the girl to admit she'd been 
raped. This might be the end of it right now, with the girl admitting a man 
had been at the tennis courts. 

"What did the man do, Debbie? You can tell us. You want to tell us." 

"He showed us the TV." 

"What did he say then?" 

"He said we couldn't call for help." 

"What else did he say, Debbie?" 

"He said we would let him do anything to us." A long silence, then added, 
"He told us to nod our heads." 

"And you nodded your heads?" 

"Yes." 

"Did he tell you his name?" 

"No." 

"Can you describe him, Debbie?" 

"He was ugly." 

"But ... what was he like other than being ugly? Was he tall or short? Fat 
or thin? Tell us all you can remember." 

"He was ugly." 

His entire attention focused on the girl's profile, Dr. Nash noticed the 
sudden twist in the girl's lips as if memory of the man's face in itself was 
unpleasant. 

" ... And short and fat." 

"How tall?" 

"As tall as I am." 

"Exactly as tall as you are?" 

"Yes." 

"How much would you guess he weighed?" 

"I'm not good at guessing a person's weight." 

"We won't be angry if you're wrong. You know we won't be angry if you're 
wrong in anything you say. Please ... give us your estimate of his weight." 

There was an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. "A hundred and 
eighty pounds." 

"What color was his hair?" 

"Black." 

"Eyes?" 

"Black." 

"Was there anything unusual about him?" 

"Nothing unusual. But he had a funny round nose." 

"Round?" 

"Like the kind clowns in a circus have." 

"Was there anything else about his face?" 

"There were some scars on his face." 

"Recent scars?" 

"No. Old ones as if he had a fight ... a ... long ... time ... ago ... " 

The girl seemed to be drifting. He wondered if the kaleidoscope was having 
too much effect. He cleared his throat noisily and the girl sat more erect 
in the chair although she did not turn .to look at him. "What did he do 
next?" 

"He felt Judy." 

Dr. Nash rubbed his forehead. He had to get every detail ... every possible 
detail ... "Did he feel you?" 

"Not then." 

"What did he do after he felt Judy?" 

"He told us to go inside the civic building." 

He could assume they both went inside the building and there would be no 
need to ask, Did you go inside? He asked instead, "What did he do then?" 

"He broke the window " 

He resisted the urge to ask why the man had broken the window. Perhaps the 
girl wouldn't know. There seemed to be no reason for him to break the 
window. "What then?" 

"He told us to stand beside the window." 

"Then?" 

"He told us to take off our panties." 

"Then?" 

"He took off his clothes ... " 

"Then?" 

"He told us to hold up our skirts." 

"Then?" 

"He fucked Judy." 

The word coming so softly and yet so bluntly from the girl's mouth was 
almost shocking. But, he knew, despite the fact that Debbie had been a 
virgin, the word was more appropriate to her than the words mated, took, 
possessed, or even the word raped. Perhaps she and her girl friends had used 
the word quite often in conversations concerning sex, and now the word had 
come naturally to her. "And what did he do then, Debbie?" 

No response. 

"Did he rape you, Debbie?" No response. 

"You can tell us, Debbie. You have no reason to be afraid to tell us." He 
cursed silently. It wasn't necessary to make the girl admit it, because it 
was obvious the man had raped her. But the fact she wouldn't admit it meant 
they hadn't broken all the barriers of the hypnotic spell. He said, "Is 
there anything else you can tell us? Anything else he said or did?" 

The girl's lips moved for a while but there was no sound. 

"I didn't hear you, Debbie. Can you speak a little louder?" 

"He fucked me. He asked me what my name was and how old I was. He asked me 
if it was the first time I'd ever had a cock stuck in me and asked me if it 
felt good. I told him it hurt, but he made me say if felt good having his 
cock stuck in me and made me say I liked to be fucked. Then he fucked Judy 
again. He asked Judy if she had ever been fucked before and she said one boy 
had fucked her. He asked her what his name was and she said Herbert. He 
asked her if his cock was bigger than Herbert's, and made her say his cock 
was bigger than Herbert's, and made her say he fucked better than Herbert. 
He made her say, 'Oooh, your big hard cock feels so good! Fuck me harder!' 
He shot his come into Judy and then he made us lay down on the floor and 
suck each other. As I sucked Judy, I felt his come in her cunt and I sucked 
it out of her cunt and into my mouth. He got behind Judy and fucked her in 
the ass. I couldn't see him but I could feel him fucking her, because he 
kept shoving her cunt harder against my mouth as he fucked her. Judy had 
been sucking my cunt but he shoved her head away and I felt him fucking me. 
I kept on sucking Judy because he hadn't told me to stop and I felt his come 
shooting into my cunt. He heard a car so he got dressed and told us to play 
another game of tennis and told us not to remember what he did." 

The word did ended in a howl. The girl leaped from her chair and ran across 
the room, the howl rising. She seized the kaleidoscope and hurled it against 
a far wall. She ran to the wall and clawed it. 

Nadine had turned on the lights and rushed to the girl. Dr. Nash was slower 
responding and he heard himself say, "Dear God." 

He held the girl while she tried to claw his face and screamed deafeningly, 
her face contorted, the cords in her neck uglily prominent. She had cut her 
forehead and blood spilled down her face, blinding one of her eyes. He 
pulled her across the room and Nadine unlocked the double doors. In the room 
beyond, the howl brought another nurse and an intern to the room and he 
stayed behind as they carried her away. 

The girl's blood was on his jacket and shirt and tie. He felt the tightness 
behind his eyes - the beginning of tears but he squelched them by 
remembering the case last year in which three men had raped a young girl and 
mutilated her body. He had seen much worse than this and, he told himself, 
the newspapers are filled with things worse than this every day. He picked 
up the phone. "Stella, get me Detective Sidney Weinman of the Trenton City 
Police as soon as possible. If he isn't available, I want to talk to the 
police commissioner. I'll be waiting at extension 202." 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

"Want to take a ride?" Sid inquired. "Where to?" 

"Harrisburg. I've had a yen lately to use some of the taxpayers' money to 
burn up some gas on a good long ride. This is the best excuse I've had 
recently. We've received the first answers from our requests for mailing 
lists from the companies that sell books on hypnotism. One name appeared on 
every list. As far as we can tell, he bought every book on hypnotism 
available. He might be our baby. Interested?" 

"I'll get dressed right away." 

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes." 

* * * 

During the long ride north to Harrisburg, there was little conversation 
between the two men. Sid was one of those drivers who devote almost all 
their attention to the road and surrounding traffic. There were no other 
developments in the case other than this one lead, he said. The man's name 
was George Schrader. Clark felt numb from the night with Norma and Peggy. 
Norma had said, "Why don't we show Peggy how sex is fun? Like I said, she 
likes to watch people fuck!" 

Norma had leaned to kiss him with her warm wet mouth. While kissing, she 
guided his hand beneath her skirt. He had shoved the hand between her 
thighs, slipped a finger beneath the leg band of her panties, into the moist 
warmness of her cunt, stroking her clit rhythmically. 

Peggy had been standing near the phonograph but came closer and watched 
them. Norma unbuttoned her blouse to expose her breasts and without being 
prompted, Clark placed a hand on her breasts, kneading them. It was the 
first time he'd ever felt a woman while another woman watched; it was oddly 
exciting to feel Norma's breasts and cunt while Peggy watched every move. 
Norma unzippered his pants and said, "Look at his cock, Peggy." Then, to 
Clark, she remarked, "Peggy hasn't seen many cocks. She likes to look at 
them." 

She drew his throbbing hard prick free of his clothing. It jutted proudly 
through the opening in his clothes and he saw Peggy staring at it intently. 
Norma squeezed his cock, gently pulling on it. "What a hunk of meat! Want to 
squeeze his cock, Peggy?" 

"No ... " 

Clark laughed, goaded, "Come on, Peggy! The more the merrier!" His cock 
ached at the idea of Peggy also squeezing it! He had never had two women 
play with his cock at the same time and he wished Peggy would place her hand 
beside Norma's! 

"No ... " 

Despite Peggy's reluctance, Clark felt his excitement mounting. He would 
sure fuck Norma tonight - possibly two or three times. While Peggy watched. 
But would he be able to fuck Peggy also ? Sight of her sleek, slender legs 
made his prick grow still harder. Drops of lubricating fluid squeezed 
through the slit in the glands, running down the length of his taut flesh to 
Norma's fingers. Norma laughed and her eyes glowed with excitement as she 
massaged the drops against the hard surface of his cock. "Look at that! His 
cock is getting ready to fuck! But ... first ... kiss my tits!" 

Clark obliged, fastening his mouth on one of Norma's nipples, kissing, 
sucking. 

Norma sighed, the sigh turning to words, "I have an idea! Peggy, while he's 
sucking one of my tits, you suck the other!" 

To Clark's surprise, Peggy knelt before the sofa, her head only inches from 
his while she fastened her red mouth on Norma's other nipple. 

"Both of you feel my pussy at the same time!" 

Having a helluva good time, giving orders, aren't you? he thought, but felt 
a new burst of excitement when he felt Peggy's slender hand brush against 
his own hand, felt her fingers occasionally touching his fingers as they 
both felt Norma's cunt, their forefingers side by side as they slipped in 
and out Norma's wet hole and then side by side as they both rubbed Norma's 
quivering clitoris. "Oh, Gawd!" Norma exclaimed. "I can't stand it!" She 
rose suddenly, tearing her body away from the pressure of mouths and 
fingers, began undressing. Peggy rose and stepped back from the couch. He 
removed his clothes and when they were both naked, Norma said, "Let's fuck 
dog-style!" She crawled onto the couch, kneeling there, waiting. 

Clark crawled onto the couch behind her, inching his stiff cock toward her 
cunt. After he pressed the knob in her slippery cunt lips, he looked up at 
Peggy and continued looking at her as he shoved all the way into Norma's 
cunt, feeling the roundness of her buttocks against his stomach. He began to 
fuck. Peggy watched with wide eyes. "Get closer!" Norma shouted. "Watch all 
of it!" 

Peggy knelt beside the couch and Clark began to fuck faster when the girl's 
face was only inches from his thrusting cock. "Feel me while he fucks me!" 
Norma shouted, her voice gurgled with her excitement, her buttocks heaving 
lustfully. 

Clark watched as the girl's slender hands moved to Norma's cunt and 
caressed. Occasionally her fingers brushed against the sliding length of his 
cock and he fucked faster and faster, spurting his come into Norma's 
pulsating cunt. 

* * * 

At the door of apartment 4C on the fourth floor, a woman in a stained 
housecoat informed them that George Schrader didn't live there. "Ask the 
landlady, Mrs. Lofland, on the first floor," she said. "Maybe she knows 
where he went." 

After Sid and Clark knocked on the door of the first floor apartment, after 
Sid had shown his identification and explained they were trying to find 
George Schrader, Mrs. Lofland said, "George died half a year ago." 

Clark grunted. He'd expected George Schrader would be the man they were 
seeking. At various times, up and down the flight of stairs in the apartment 
building, he had touched the .22 in his pocket. He had promised himself he 
would shoot the man as soon as Sid and he were certain he was the rapist. He 
glanced at Sid. 

The detective appeared unconcerned. He said, "Thank you, Mrs. Lofland. Sorry 
to bother you." 

Mrs. Lofland closed the door and went to the window to look out at the two 
men as they got into the car. "Delaware license plates," she muttered half 
to her husband on the couch, half to herself. "I wonder what that was all 
about ...?" 

"Policemen?" her husband asked. It was a hot day and he had taken off his 
shirt and undershirt. He scratched his hairy chest. 

"Looking for George. Did you hear me tell them he died half a year ago? I 
wanted to tell them they should be looking for that horrible Pawelski. 
Remember ... he had the apartment next to George's ? I don't know why George 
was so friendly with him ... always talking with him ... always drinking 
beer together ... " 

She went to the chair and sat so she faced her husband. She said: "Did 
George ever say anything about all those books on hypnotism?" 

"No." 

"Why should a man buy so many books about hypnotism? I always liked George 
but when Mary told me about those books, it almost made me afraid to talk to 
him ... afraid he'd hypnotize me. 

"I saw a hypnotist on the Ed Sullivan show once," her husband said sleepily. 
"Made a man get down on his hands and knees and bark like a dog. I never 
could understand why those books bothered you. Why should George make you 
get down on your hands and knees and bark like a dog?" 

Mrs. Lofland ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and studied her husband 
speculatively, wondering if she should say some of the strange thoughts in 
her mind - deciding she wouldn't because her husband would scoff. She pulled 
the handkerchief from her skirt pocket and blew her nose. 

"Poor George ... he was such a nice man. And had such a nice job. They say 
he was an expert on that sub ... sub ... " 

"Subliminal TV," her husband said. 

"I could never understand that. Do you think that sub ... sub ... " 

"Subliminal." 

" ... Could make a person actually go out and buy a tube of toothpaste or 
whatever it was they were advertising?" She waited and when there was no 
response from her husband, answered her own question, "I don't see how 
something like that could make you buy something if you couldn't see it. 
They say you couldn't see that sub ... subliminal advertising." 

She went into the kitchen to get a glass of water, returned to her chair. 
She rocked slowly in the chair and the creaking sound of the rockers was the 
only sound in the room until she continued, "I tried to tell them George 
never took sleeping pills. He told me that once when I told him how much 
trouble I had sleeping and had to take a pill every night. How could he die 
from an overdose of sleeping pills if he wasn't in the habit of taking 
sleeping pills? If you ask me, I think that horrible Pawelski made him take 
those pills." 

She rocked some more and went on: "I told them that horrible Pawelski took 
George's portable TV. I saw him carrying it down the hall. But ... they 
didn't seem concerned at all." Her lips compressed with memory of how the 
policeman had remained so indifferent when she told him about the stolen TV 
after George's body was found. "George spent a lot of time working on that 
TV. Mary knew. She cleaned his room every week and she said he was always 
working on it ... worked on it for months. Do you think he put a sub ... 
subliminal in that portable TV?" 

When her husband did not answer, she said, "I don't see why? Why should 
George put a subliminal in a portable TV to make people buy toothpaste and 
things like that?" 

She realized her husband was asleep. She closed her eyes and her thoughts 
drifted to Mary. Poor sweet little Mary. Such a shy and pretty girl. Cleaned 
all the apartments better than anyone they ever had before or since. It had 
certainly been a shock when Mary became pregnant. 

On the outskirts of Harrisburg, Sid said, "See what police work is? A lot of 
footwork, dull routines, dead ends everywhere." 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 

As Sid reached his desk, the phone rang. 

"Lieutenant Weinman." 

"Sid, this is Frank Nash at the state hospital. We finished questioning the 
Kessler girl. It was quite a job but me managed to get some answers. Ready 
to write them down " 

Sid hooked a foot around the leg of his chair, rolled it away from his desk, 
and dropped in it while he grabbed his pen and notebook. "Shoot." 

"Debbie Kessler was raped by an expert hypnotist. For the record, he also 
raped one of her friends at the tennis courts, a girl named Judy. The man 
was driving a Ford. The Kessler girl described him as ugly ... short ... 
fat. The same height as herself ... which would be about five feet, five 
inches. Her guess on his weight is a hundred and eighty pounds. Black hair, 
dark eyes. A round nose. Scars on his face. Get all that?" 

"Got it." 

"I asked the Kessler girl if she knew what make of car the man was driving 
and she said it was a Ford 'just like Elmer's.' So ... perhaps you can find 
out from her parents who this Elmer is and then find out the style and year 
of car." 

"Right." 

"That's about all we have for you. This girl was definitely hypnotized and 
he must be an expert hypnotist ... judging from the way we had to dig so 
deep. From what the girl said, he apparently has a trick of carrying a 
portable TV and getting his victims to look at it to distract them while he 
hypnotizes them." 

"The TV ties in. A kid near the tennis courts saw a man with a TV." 

"Good." 

"That all?" 

"That's all we have to offer. I won't hold you long ... I know you have work 
to do. But I just heard on the news they found Katherine Elsinger's body. Do 
you think it might be the same man?" 

"I don't know. I was in Harrisburg checking a lead. I haven't had time to 
check on the Elsinger case." 

"When you catch the man, bring him here to the state hospital. He must be 
criminally insane. We'll have him committed until the trial. As you know, we 
have a special ward for the criminally insane. We can give him some special 
treatment." 

Sid felt a chill at the tone of voice when he said special treatment. He 
said, "Okay. Thanks." He hung up the phone, glanced at Clark standing before 
his desk. "And sometimes you turn a corner and there it is right in front of 
you. Have a seat. I've got some things to do and then maybe we'll take 
another ride." 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 

"Where are we going?" Clark asked. He knew Sid was excited and the 
excitement was contagious - his own heart beating faster, his nerves 
tingling. 

"They found Katherine Elsinger's body. Someone raped her and killed her. 
Tied weights to her ankles and dropped her in the bay. Whatever he used to 
hold her down came loose because all the wires slipped off her ankles or 
broke, leaving only the marks. If this is our baby, he's all grown up now 
... grown up to bigger games." 

They were on the Kennedy Memorial Highway, heading south. Clark watched the 
speedometer needle climb to 75. It didn't seem fast enough. It was a 
four-lane highway and he estimated they could do 80 or 90 with no trouble. 
He resisted the urge to ask Sid to go faster and said, "Did the doctor at 
the hospital give you a description of the man?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Tell me." 

"So you can use that gun in your pocket as soon as you see him? Next time 
you carry a gun, buy looser clothing so the bulge won't be so obvious." 

"Are you going to tell me what he looks like?" 

"Ugly. Short. Fat. Five foot five. Hundred and eighty pounds. Black hair. 
Dark eyes. Round nose. Scars on his face. Promise me you won't shoot the 
first fat man you see." 

"I promise." 

"They found the woman's body near Chesapeake City. Her body is in the morgue 
there so we'll take a look at it and talk with the local sheriff." 

Clark watched the road and the flash of green hills on either side of the 
road. He slipped his hand in his pocket and felt the butt of the gun ... 
"This case doesn't fit in the pattern, does it?" he asked. "We could be 
wasting our time ... " 

"It fits in two ways. Katherine Elsinger is from this area which seems to be 
our baby's favorite hunting grounds." 

"So he might have kidnapped her and taken her down to the bay?" 

"Right. He tried to hide the body. Maybe that means he's smart enough to 
know he's been hitting too often around here and wants to move on to new 
hunting grounds. And there's something else that fits the pattern." 

"Katherine Elsinger was last seen with an ugly, short fat man with a round 
nose?" 

"No. She wasn't last seen with anybody. That's the funny part. The night she 
disappeared ... As she was leaving the house, her mother asked her where she 
was going. Guess what Katherine said?" 

"That she had a date with an ugly, short fat man with a - " 

"According to the files, her mother told the investigating officer that 
Katherine said, quote, I don't know where I'm going, unquote." 

Clark felt a chill on his back. "As if she'd been hypnotized and instructed 
to meet someone somewhere ... " 

"Exactly." 

"My God." 

"Clever little trick, huh? Just think ... if you were that good a hypnotist, 
you could see a broad almost anywhere. Hypnotize her, tell her to meet you 
-" 

"What makes a guy turn into a rapist?" Clark asked suddenly. Immediately 
after asking the question, he realized it was a rather stupid question, but 
the thought had burst upon his lips. 

"What makes a thief, a bank robber, a murderer?" Sid hesitated while he 
passed a truck that rode with its left wheels on the center line, almost 
forcing them onto the median strip while they passed. When they were safely 
beyond the truck, he continued, "I heard a psychologist phrase it once as an 
'extension of a normal sexual impulse.'" 

"Normal?" 

"Wait. That's wrong. He said, 'abnormal extension of a normal sexual 
impulse.' A normal sexual impulse is to dominate a woman and screw her. 
Right? I think what the psychologist meant was that sometimes the impulse is 
so strong or the urge to dominate is so strong, it turns into rape." 

"But that's like saying rape's a normal - " 

"Not quite. He said abnormal extension of a normal impulse. He said 
something else too that might be true, might not, I never thought about it 
much. He said almost every man in the world is a potential rapist. Any man 
with a normal sex drive. What prevents most men from becoming rapists is ... 
well, the reasons are damned good ones. Common sense. Logic. Fear of 
discovery, fear of punishment. He said, almost any man could turn into a 
rapist if he knew he wouldn't be punished." 

"Jesus! That psychologist should see a psychiatrist !" 

Sid chuckled. "Maybe so." 

Clark watched the road ahead. In the silence between them, watching the 
road, he remembered Beatrice. And how he'd almost raped her. At Norma's 
apartment, he'd had the impulse to rape Peggy. While slipping his rod in and 
out of Norma, he'd had the tremendous urge to jump on Peggy, sink his rod 
deep into her ... 

Elaine ... at the office ... how many times had he wanted to screw her ... ? 
A thousand times. And since the act would have been completed in the 
presence of Elaine's unwillingness to go so far as sexual intercourse, the 
urge to screw her had, in a sense, been an urge to rape her. Logic and the 
fear of discovery and the fear of punishment had prevented him from forcing 
himself upon Elaine. Raping Elaine, he would have lost his job, his freedom, 
and one of the best wives in the world ... 

"Want to hear something funny ?" Sid asked. 

"I'm dying to hear something funny." 

"Remember you found that cigar butt at the tennis court where Debbie Kessler 
was raped when you were playing cops and robbers with me?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Did you hear about the girl found in that alley ? Raped and strangled ?" 

"I heard about it. Did you work on that case?" 

"They assigned it to another detective. It doesn't fit the pattern of our 
baby but - " 

"It could have been the work of the hypnotist, couldn't it? If a criminal 
has a pattern, that doesn't mean he always sticks to the pattern, does it?" 

"Smart boy. That's what I wanted to tell you. Remember you found that cigar 
butt at the tennis court? And, even though they assigned the case of that 
girl in the alley to another detective, I went to the scene just for the 
hell of it and looked around. Guess what I found in the gutter between the 
alley where they found the body and the place where the girl worked? An 
empty cigar package. As if the rapist had smoked the last one and tossed the 
package in the gutter." 

"What kind of cigars ... ?" 

"Havana's." 

"I also found a cigar band at the tennis courts," Clark said. "I didn't tell 
you at the time because you said - " 

"I know. I told you a cigar butt isn't a clue. A lot of guys smoke cigars." 

They were both silent for a long time. Finally Sid slapped the steering 
wheel with the palm of a hand, turned toward his companion, grinning. "Okay. 
I'll say it. Promise me you won't start shooting the first time you see a 
fat man smoking a cigar." 

"I promise." 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 

Connie went to the window and raised one of the Venetian slats a fraction of 
an inch. She could see the main road and the railroad tracks on the other 
side of the road. As she watched, a train roared by. Even from the other 
side of the road, the noise was deafening. She went to the bureau, lit a 
cigarette, and studied her naked body in the mirror. She went to her purse 
and counted the money she'd taken from Pawelski. Five thousand and twenty 
dollars. She walked across the room to the chair where Pawelski still sat, 
staring straight ahead. She waved her hand in front of his eyes but his eyes 
did not flicker. She looked with disgust at his hairy naked body. He was 
ugly ... but stronger than any man she'd had before. 

It had been a surprise getting the phone call from him. He'd asked her to 
come to Chesapeake City and at first she'd said no. Why in hell should she 
travel fifty miles just to suck his cock? 

But then she'd remembered the five hundred dollars he'd given her to suck 
his cock that third time in the motel. He had made it a kind of bet, a crazy 
thing to do, but it showed he had so damned much money, he didn't care what 
he did with it. He'd sounded drunk over the phone and he said he'd bought a 
boat. She'd decided there might be some big money in it if she came and now 
she was damned glad she'd come ... Five thousand and twenty dollars was a 
hell of a lot of money. But the stuff about the TV was hard to believe. She 
went to the TV and looked at it closely. It seemed no different than any 
other TV, but Pawelski had said it was a special set - made by a man who'd 
worked on the subliminal advertising they'd outlawed from television 
broadcasting - a man who'd studied hypnotism all his life. 

She took the gun from the bed and pointed it at his head. Would she be able 
to kill him ? Hell, yes. It'd be goddamned easy and besides, she'd have to 
kill him if she took the five thousand and twenty dollars. If she didn't 
kill him, he'd find her sooner or later and tear her apart with those huge 
hands. She took the pillow from the bed and tore a hole in it. She placed 
the gun inside the pillow and held the pillow against his head. It would 
work. She knew it'd work. All she had to do was wait for one of those trains 
to pass by - with all that noise, with the gun in the pillow, nobody'd hear 
the shot. 

Was he telling the truth when he said all that about the TV? She looked at 
the TV doubtfully. He'd been so drunk last night, so stinking drunk, not 
making sense half the time, it was hard to know how much had been the truth 
and how much had been just drunk-jabbering. Part of what he said must be the 
truth because she had turned the TV toward him and pushed the button in the 
back. She had turned the TV off a few moments later, but he had looked at 
the screen before she turned it off and ever since then he'd just sat there 
with that funny look on his face as if he was hypnotized. So ... the TV 
could hypnotize a person as he'd said. But could it make a person do 
anything? She experimented as she had before. "Move your right arm." 

He did. 

"Move your left arm." 

He did. 

It occurred to her there was a much more interesting way to check the 
strength of the hypnosis. She said, "Touch your cock." 

He did. 

"Squeeze your cock." 

She watched with fascination as his huge hand wrapped around his penis. She 
said, "Stand up and jerk off." 

Her heart beat faster as he obeyed - standing up and sliding his curled hand 
up and down the length of his prick. She watched as it hardened and 
lengthened, swelled, and suddenly spat a stream of white sperm. 

He had told the truth about the TV! It could make a person do anything! 

A warmness burst deep inside her as she realized all the things she could 
make him do. She felt her nipples harden, her throat suddenly tight, her 
pulse pounding. He had made her suck his cock and swallow his come three 
times. It had been his way of humbling her. Now she had the chance to humble 
him! 

Without actually planning it, she went to where he stood and grabbed his 
limp cock, jerking on it wildly until it became hard again. She stared into 
his blank eyes, then down at his cock in her hand, grunting as she clenched 
her teeth and jerked on it, only then realizing what she was doing. She 
realized vaguely that it was a kind of revenge - standing there and jerking 
him off. Hundreds of men had shot their come into her cunt and into her 
mouth. Now, finally, she was having a revenge, jerking a man off and 
shooting his come into the air! She laughed as her hand brought a long 
stream of come from his stiff cock - a long stream that spurted past her hip 
and splatted on the floor behind her. She turned to look at the white puddle 
and then ordered him to kneel before her. After he knelt, she held her cunt 
lips apart and ordered him to suck her cunt and lick her clit. She shuddered 
at the touch of his lips and probing tongue. She had an orgasm almost 
immediately but ordered him to keep on licking her cunt. Her second orgasm 
came a few minutes later and her legs felt weak but she ordered him to keep 
licking and to lick faster. His tongue slid faster and faster against her 
clit, bringing it to life again, making it tingle and quiver and drawing the 
third wet wonderful burst from deep inside her body. In those last moments 
before she gushed against his face, he was grunting with his effort and 
sounded like a pig as he licked and sucked her cunt. 

The third shattering orgasm numbed her mind and body. She felt frozen in a 
state of complete joy and satisfaction. She heard the distant roar of 
another train and, as a shadowy image in a pleasant dream, she stepped back, 
removing her cunt from his mouth and holding the gun and the pillow against 
his head. 

She had to kill him and it would be more than easy, it would be a pleasure. 
She smiled as the roar of the train grew louder. Everything he said about 
the TV was true! It must be the best hypnosis machine in the world! It was 
hers now, and she could have any man in the world, have the most handsome 
men in the world down on their knees, licking her cunt! 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 

"Glad to meet you, lieutenant. Glad to meet you, Mr. Vaughn. Sorry ... 
You're too late." 

"Too late for what?" Sid asked. 

"We got the description of the hypnotist over the teletype. Jim Murphy ... 
one of our patrolmen ... started checking motels around here. One of the 
motel managers remembered seeing a man who fitted the description. Murphy 
called me. I told him to keep an eye on the man and I'd be there fast as I 
could. I got two other men but when we got there it was all over." 

"What happened?" 

"Murphy was waiting outside the room the suspect was staying in. The manager 
had noticed a blonde going in there. Murphy heard a shot while he was 
waiting for me. He thought the man had shot the blonde. The shot came right 
when a train went by the motel. Murphy shot the lock off the door, went in. 
Murphy got a hell of a surprise. Says he never saw anything like it before 
... hopes he never sees anything like it again. The blonde had held a gun 
against Pawelski's head and blew - " 

"The suspect's name is Pawelski ?" 

"Carl Pawelski. The blonde had held a gun against Pawelski's head and blew 
his brains all over the room. When Murphy went in, the blonde tried to blow 
Murphy's brains outa his head too but took a chunk outa one of his ears 
instead. Murphy shot low ... didn't want to kill her. The bullet went 
through her stomach, hit her spine. They were both naked as jaybirds ... 
Pawelski and the blonde. They musta been screwing, the blonde saw how much 
money he had, decided to take it all. Want to see our collection ?" 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Sid said. 

Clark watched numbly as the sheriff nodded at the morgue attendant and the 
attendant pulled the sheet away from one of the corpses. 

"Elsinger," the sheriff said. "Katherine Elsinger. Autopsy showed Pawelski 
had some fun with her before he dumped her in the bay." 

The attendant restored the sheet over the dead woman's body, turned to the 
next slab, and pulled the sheet aside. 

"Carl Pawelski. Fits the description to a T. See the scratches on his face? 
The Elsinger girl did that. Autopsy proves it from skin under her 
fingernails. We found bloodstains on his boat. Haven't checked it yet but 
I'll bet you anything it's the Elsinger girl's blood. If Pawelski wasn't 
already dead, we'd be able to hang him." 

The attendant restored the sheet over the dead man's body, turned to the 
next slab and pulled the sheet aside. 

"Not bad, huh?" 

"Who is she?" 

"Connie Cooper, a whore from Trenton." 

"Quite a collection," Sid said grimly. 

"Eye witness against her," the sheriff said. "Murphy caught her holding the 
gun a minute after she fired the shot that killed Pawelski. If she wasn't 
already dead, we'd be able to hang her. Want to see the motel where it 
happened?" 

"And Pawelski's boat," Sid said. 

Outside the Chesapeake City Morgue, Sid and Clark followed the sheriff to 
the car parked at the curb. Clark's mind was still filled with the image of 
the blonde woman's corpse ... the beautifully shaped body so white and cold 
with the hole in the center of her stomach ... 

"See how police work is?" Sid mumbled. "A lot of footwork, dull routines, 
dead-ends everywhere. Sometimes you turn a corner and there it is right in 
front of you. Sometimes you turn another corner and find someone else has 
done all your work." 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 

When Clark stepped into the cabin, he was startled by the strong mixture of 
odors - the odor of beer and sweat, a strange odor that might have been the 
odor of blood, and the lingering musty odor of sexual exhaustion. He watched 
as Sid examined the cabin, then he went up to the deck, leaned against the 
railing. 

None of it seemed real now. None. The boat beneath his feet, the motel room 
splattered with blood, the bodies at the morgue, Alma, his life with Alma 
... The other boats at the docks before his eyes ... the stretch of bay off 
to his right ... the sky ... the land ... They were all things. Things that 
could be seen, things that could be felt, things that existed but were not 
entirely real ... not very important ... 

He lit a cigarette and his thoughts turned to Elaine, Beatrice, Peggy ... He 
felt the shortness of breath, the painful tightening in his loins - the 
sudden overwhelming desire for a woman ... Elaine ... He remembered the 
softness of her flesh beneath his fingers - the way she had let him touch 
every intimate portion of her body but had never let him pass beyond that 
act of playing ... 

"Ready?" 

He turned toward Sid, nodded. 

After they reached the car, Sid asked, "Disappointed?" 

Clark shrugged his shoulders. 

"You wanted to be the one to blow Pawelski's brains out. Right? But the 
blonde did it for you." 

Clark tried to grin. "Maybe it's better that way. If I'd killed Pawelski, I 
probably wouldn't have done such a good job. I would've aimed at his chest. 
The blonde did a real good job by blowing his head apart." 

Sid opened the car door, paused. He nodded toward the rear seat that had 
been covered with suitcases, the portable TV, other items taken from the 
motel room. "See all that? Know what's going to happen to it? We have to 
take it back to Trenton since the blonde lived in Trenton and Pawelski's 
last address was in Trenton. All those items will be tagged and kept awhile. 
They'll try to return them to the blonde's relatives and Pawelski's 
relatives but chances are they'll never locate the relatives ... if there 
are any. In that case, all the items will be kept awhile and sold at an 
auction. That TV wouldn't last long in the storeroom at city hall. How about 
a consolation prize, a souvenir ?" 

 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 

"Norma here?" 

"She's working. She'll be home soon." 

Clark placed the TV on the floor, glanced around the room. The clock on the 
far wall said it was only three o'clock in the afternoon. If Norma was 
working eight to five, there would be more than two hours he would be alone 
with Peggy ... Blind luck ... blind good luck ... He hadn't known that Norma 
would be working, hadn't known that Peggy would be in Norma's apartment. 
Wanting a woman, any woman, he'd stopped at the apartment expecting to find 
only Norma, expecting to make love with her ... 

Peggy went to the phonograph, turned it off, and removed the record from the 
turntable. "I came over here to play my new record," she explained. "I don't 
have a phonograph. Norma lets me use her phonograph." 

He had felt desire for Peggy the first time he saw her; had felt the desire 
increase each succeeding time he saw her. Now, looking at her as she stood 
by the phonograph, he felt the desire burst again, harder than ever. 

She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse that hugged the curves of her 
small breasts, a short cotton skirt that emphasized the narrowness of her 
hips. Her large eyes showed she was afraid to be alone with him - afraid 
because of her fear of men, the knowledge of what he might try to do. "I'll 
have to go now," she said. "I have to - " 

"Can you help me a few minutes before you go? Someone gave me this TV. I 
want to see how it works." Not wanting to allow her time to say no, he 
placed the TV on the card table 

"Someone gave it to you ?" 

* * * 

The card table was littered with empty glasses, bottles, a scattered deck of 
cards, a score pad, ashtrays. Norma and Peggy had been playing canasta 
again. Most of the cigarettes were lipsticked on the ends, but there were 
some cigarette butts with no lipstick on the ends and he wondered if Norma 
and Peggy had "entertained" another man last night - again allowing Peggy to 
watch while the man fucked Norma. It was entirely possible, even probable 
... 

"Someone gave it to me but I don't know if the damned thing works or not. 
You stand over there and tell me how the picture looks while I fiddle with 
these knobs." He turned the TV on and listened to the faint hum from within 
the plastic case. He turned the adjusting knob. "Any picture yet?" 

He noticed the case was badly scratched in some places. Chances were the 
damned thing didn't work at all - Pawelski had probably just carried it with 
him as a gimmick to distract his victims while he hypnotized them - 
something for them to focus their attention on. "How's that? Peggy ... ?" He 
raised his head to look at her and felt a chill at the total emptiness in 
her eyes. Her lovely face had paled almost to the whiteness of her blouse, 
and her slender body had become lifeless, frozen ... 

He opened his mouth to say Peggy but the word never came to his lips. He 
remembered how he'd telephoned Sid from the kitchen and talked with Sid in 
the early hours of that morning - how he had later stood by the sink in the 
kitchen with the nagging sensation he'd missed an important meaning in the 
conversation with Sid. It struck him now. Sid had said: One of the kids said 
he saw a man with a TV set at the tennis courts. And, speaking of the 
rapist, why should he lug along a TV? He sure as hell wouldn't watch TV 
while he raped a girl! 

He was standing slightly behind the TV ... unable to see the screen. Without 
thinking, he reached and turned the control knob to Off. The set being 
turned off made no difference. Peggy still stood before him, motionless, and 
he realized he had accidentally hypnotized her. Perhaps she would not awaken 
unless he ordered her to awaken. 

He ordered her to lay down on the couch and after she had settled onto the 
couch, he went there and slowly raised her skirt. He removed her panties and 
then removed his own clothes, settling down onto her, sinking his stiff cock 
in her soft tight cunt and beginning to fuck her while his mind whirled with 
the concept of the power he now possessed. 

He knew Peggy would never willingly have sexual intercourse with any man, so 
he tested the strength of the hypnosis by fucking her in a dozen different 
positions, ordering her to suck his cock and, finally, unable to delay 
longer, he shoved her down on the couch and fucked her until his come 
spurted into her velvety tight cunt. He ordered her to put on her panties 
and return to her own apartment, to awaken, and to not remember he had taken 
her. 

Hours later, with the work table in his cellar covered with tools and parts 
of the TV, he found the device in the heart of the set, constructed behind 
the screen - the incredibly simple device designed to flash a pattern of 
varicolored lights in a rhythmic pattern. 

He laughed then at the simplicity of it - a mechanical device no more 
complicated than a radio. 

The truth had eluded Sid, eluded everyone. 

There had never been any evidence of the device, only evidence of a 
hypnotist. 

He wondered if Pawelski had invented it ... or if Pawelski had stolen it 
from someone. It was amazingly simple and yet, although simpler than other 
electronic devices sold by the millions to the public, this device was 
obviously the result of years of research and work by one man in secrecy. 

He held it in one hand. It was so small it could be carried easily. The TV 
had been used only as a carrier, for concealment. 

There were so many possibilities ... 

 EPILOGUE 

On the sidewalk in front of the North American Building, Elaine Bettinger 
stood near the marble cornerstone and waited for her bus. A breeze toyed 
with her skirt and she kept her skirt from rising too far up the length of 
her thighs but allowed it to rise a few inches. She looked at the row of 
benches and the men sitting there. 

She could see it in their faces as they stared at her legs - the lust 
showing as clearly as it had shown in Bill Medkeff's face, Tony DiRosa's 
face, Clark Vaughn's face ... 

They wanted her - she felt a certain pride because they wanted her. It was 
wonderful to be wanted and satisfying to know they could never have her. 

The bus was coming. The other women were moving toward the yellow curbing 
... 

"Elaine." 

Someone touched her arm. 

"Clark. What are you doing here ?" 

"I can give you a ride home. My car is parked over there." 

"Oh, thanks, Clark. Really, I shouldn't." She wondered how she could put it 
into words. How would it look if Mom saw her come home with Clark in his 
car? Mom had been staying with them ever since she married Jim - Mom was 
always waiting at the window - waiting to see her get off the bus at the 
corner - Mom with those bright gray eyes that seemed to see and know 
everything. It was because of Mom that she never allowed herself to go all 
the way with any other man after she married Jim. Mom had looked into her 
eyes after that date with that freckle-faced boy in high school and Mom had 
known. Mom had beat her with Dad's belt that night and she had cried all 
night ... 

"I'll give you a ride," Clark insisted. 

His hand was tight around her arm. There was something in his manner that 
told her he wanted to make love with her - he would, make love with her if 
she went in his car. Mom would see it, Mom would know it. Mom couldn't stop 
her from dreaming, Mom couldn't tell when she only let men play with her, 
but - 

"I can't, Clark. My mother is staying with us. She - " 

Clark was opening a large paper bag. She glanced at the mouth of the bag to 
see what it contained and knew for a moment it contained a darkness in which 
she was with Clark in his car parked somewhere, his hands on her naked 
breasts, his cock thrusting into her ... 


THE END
